Blood Wars: New Dawn
by PhantomInspector
Summary: Based on Star Wars: A New Hope. A crossover of Trinity Blood, Hellsing and Vampire Hunter D. When Caterina's life is directly threatened by Rosencreutz, she seeks the aid of an ancient warrior supposedly lost to history. Somewhat AU.
1. Prologue

As the summary says, this is a crossover of Trinity Blood, Hellsing and Vampire Hunter D, and the plot is based on the Star Wars trilogies. This story follows the general plot of _A New Hope_, in case the title didn't give it away. I've already started posting chapters of the story that follows _The Phantom Menace_ (Blood Wars: The Last Nosferatu) on deviantart. I don't think you need to know Star Wars to enjoy this series. This is technically AU, but it tries to keep to the canon of Hellsing, TB and VHD as much as possible. Please leave your thoughts in a review, even if you think the story stinks. Hopefully it won't, though. ;) Thanks!

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Prologue: 3051

* * *

The town of Bridgewood lay right on the cusp of the Wildes. Like most of the other hamlets in northern Albion, Bridgewood consisted mostly of a tiny commercial main street, several scattered houses with farms, and many square miles of untamed wilderness. Such low-population areas knew none of the technological advances of the southern cities, except advancements in farm equipment. The northern counties were not habitations suited for the timid. They marked a new frontier for Albion which it had not known prior to Armageddon. The towns and farms faded into the unbridled terrain at the fingertips of human civilization. Few people dared to venture beyond this threshold.

Since the Armageddon, fantastic tales of unimaginable horrors haunted the frontier districts. The effect these stories had on listeners waxed and waned with the fashions of superstition and skepticism, but it was never absent. From time to time, a small band of nomadic herders or hunters passed through the villages and spun their yarns of encounters with monsters so strange and terrifying that listeners who did not faint remained captivated. Most couldn't believe such creatures existed, and dismissed the stories as imaginative chatter. These men only craved attention, after all, and to be rewarded for their mettle with a drink and a place to sleep. Maybe a swooning girl or two, too.

Still, as the centuries passed, no one could wholly throw out the notion that unnatural beings dwelled in the lands beyond the human settlements. Perhaps that was why the tracks of uninhabited forests and moors were eventually termed 'the Wildes.' People who lived on the very edge of the hamlets would swear they sometimes saw herds of ghoulish beasts moving through the night in the distance. Whatever the beasts were, they claimed the darkness, and villagers kept vigil in their homes. No one stayed outside the homestead after dark. Even straying too far from home at sunset was asking for trouble.

On occasion, mysterious disappearances would occur, and over time disappearances began to look suspiciously like abductions. Nothing could be confirmed, though, and no one could be brought to justice. 'If a wolf killed a child,' the local authorities would say, 'what would be the use of hunting down one miserable wolf and killing it? Wild beasts could not be expected to understand right from wrong. The time to kill an animal is in the act, and only to protect one's property or fellow man.'

Some inhabitants accused the lawmen of cowardice. Others simply sighed or shook their heads, resigning to the truth: this was the law of lawless lands. Justice could not be served on a silver platter; it had to be pursued at one's own risk, if at all. And sometimes tragedy had to be accepted and left to rest.

* * *

"I'm sure Cade's around here," Bailey called back to her father as she ran further ahead of him. "C'mere, Cade! C'mon, boy!"

"Bailey! Don't get too far! It's getting late. We can look for Cade tomorrow."

"No! He won't last the night! You know he won't!"

"We can't stay out much longer. Maybe he went back to the house."

"Please, Dad, just a little longer. Just ten more minutes, please?"

The tall field grass was becoming more and more tangled as the pair approached the edge of the Howling Wood. Labon could feel his knees beginning to quake. He didn't want to say anything to his daughter, but he would never have dreamed of coming near this place except to save one of his children. Just looking at the large, black-barked trees and the thick, menacing foliage turned his fingers cold with fear. He'd be nervous coming here to save a child, let alone a stupid dog. How could Bailey, just fourteen, have so much courage?

Perhaps ignorance as well as courage played a part. She understood that the Howling Wood was dangerous, but she didn't know why. She had never faced the danger herself.

When he suddenly heard a dog barking in the nearby underbrush, Labon couldn't tell if he was relieved or shocked. He nearly stumbled as he tried to catch up to Bailey, who had recklessly dashed into the line of trees. He grimly observed the now evident slope into the wood. What if Bailey tripped? What if the dog was stuck in a mud pit? What could be waiting for them down there, hungry for its evening meal?

Before Labon reached the trees, he heard Bailey scream. He nearly dropped his rifle. His heart stopped. What happened? What got her?

"Bailey!" he yelled back.

"Dad, come quick! Cade found somebody!"

"He _what_?"

"I think he's hurt! He's too heavy. I can't pull him up!"

Labon nearly regretted throwing down his gun before ducking through the low branches toward his daughter's voice. What the hell was someone doing out here? Was he even alive? There was still the threat of wild animals to be considered. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he could double back for the gun. Only the words "Dad, please hurry!" forced him to press forward. He quickly prayed to any supreme being who could hear to protect him.

To his surprise, Bailey hadn't gone very far, only five yards or so ahead of him. She knelt by what appeared to be a tall, pale young man with long dark hair. His clothes were torn and bloodstained. Cade, a medium-sized yellow Labrador, held what remained of the man's right sleeve in his mouth. Bailey looked up, her eyes wide and cheeks colorless. "Hurry, Dad! He's barely breathing!"

Labon approached them and dropped to the ground. He first put his ear to the man's mouth. The tiniest tingle of breath came out. He then checked the man's heart. A beat could barely be detected. Judging by the clothes, this man had definitely been attacked.

"All right," he sighed, feeling his daughter's tortured eyes on him. "Let's get him to the house. Quickly!"

Night had nearly fallen by the time father and daughter reached the stoop. Cade, abandoning all original thoughts of flight or play, followed them closely back home. He pawed at the door as the pair carried the man up the porch steps. A ten-year-old boy opened the door.

"Dad? Bailey? Where have you – crikey! Where'd you pick _him_ up?"

"In the wood," answered a breathless Bailey before Labon could speak. "Cade dug him up or something. Look, he's all covered in dirt."

"Wow!" The boy eyed the man over in fascination. "Is he staying here?"

"Just for a while," said Labon as calmly as he could. "We need to tend his wounds." He grunted as he maneuvered himself and the body through the door and made the last few feet to a wooden bench. "We'll put him in your bed, Tack."

"Really?" the boy moped. "Does that mean I have to sleep with Bail?"

"We'll work that out later. Bailey, get his shoes off. I'll look at his wounds."

The two worked swiftly to unburden their guest of the majority of his attire. Labon suspected he would have to bind the wounds before putting him to bed, so as not to ruin the sheets. As he peeled off the clothes, he was in for another surprise.

"Bailey," he said quietly, "do you see any cuts? Bruises?"

The girl jumped to her feet and came to her father's side. She looked over the man's well-toned form. His skin was flawless. There wasn't a stab wound, bite or abrasion in sight. Not even a bruise. "No, none. How can that be?"

"I don't know." Labon hated not having an answer. A rancher needed to be certain of things, to know what he was facing in order to make the right decisions for survival. "He couldn't have just been lying there for weeks like this."

"What should we do?" asked Tack.

Labon looked over the man's clothes. They, unlike the man who wore them, were beyond repair. They were ancient rags. So ancient, in fact, that the edges disintegrated between Labon's fingers. The man would need new garments.

"Kids, take off the rest of his clothes and toss them in the fireplace. I'll get some things out of my drawer."

* * *

He felt a buzzing in his head before he could open his eyes. The buzz turned to a ringing in his ears as light filled his vision. The light was unbearable at first. He couldn't see anything. After a second, the blur slowly receded to just two corners, changing from sheer white to dim yellow-orange. The blur of darkness above him eventually sharpened to sloping wooden planks.

The ringing started to die down. He sat up a little, then sank back down. Why was he numb? What happened to his body? Dizziness arose. He turned his head to the right. There was nothing but a wall. That was a start. He remained that way for a minute, waiting for the dizziness to stop. To his minor relief, the wait also brought about a return of feeling in his limbs. He wanted to move his hands just to see if he could in fact do so, but he resisted. Where was he? Who was he with? Were they trustworthy? More slowly than before, he turned his head around until he looked to the left. Surprised, he blinked.

A man with graying hair and a peppered mustache sat in a chair next to him and the bed he was in. He leaned back in his seat, an open book resting in his lap. His head was also back, and a soft snore emitted from his nose. One light, a small desk lamp, sat burning on a child's desk standing against the wall.

There was only one dangerous thing to consider. A rifle stood between the man's legs, resting against the left thigh. Was he being held captive? Or was the man keeping it for his own protection?

He didn't want to move, partly because he feared waking the man, and partly because he still felt very tired. What time was it? Early morning? He thought he could see the first tints of dawn through the only window in the room. It could have been dusk, though. But then why would the man be asleep? No, it must have been dawn. He could feel it in his marrow. He just wanted to turn over and sleep. Just pretend he was home again.

He tried to imagine home. His mind rooted for some trace of memory. His thoughts stopped. A staggering and depressing realization came to him. Suddenly he felt like an empty, abandoned shell. All at once, the room became a frightening place. He curled up under the blankets, not noticing that he had regained control over his extremities.

A spasm wracked him when he heard the door open. He heard the man in the chair start, too. The footsteps were soft – barefooted.

"Huh?" grunted the man. "Bail? You're up?"

"Sorry, Dad," whispered the intruder. "I just wanted to check. I . . ."

She trailed off as both she and her father looked at him. He stared back.

"Well, looks like we're both up," said the father. "How are you feeling?"

He looked from him to the girl, then back. His lips pressed tightly together.

"You needn't be afraid of us," the man assured him gently. Then he noticed his firearm. "Oh, I'm sorry if this scared you. I just never rest easy if I don't have it at all times." He laid the gun on the floor. "If you're still tired, we'll let you be."

He thought it over. "I'm . . . not tired." His throat felt rough and dry.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

He realized he was thirsty, though not for what they thought. "Water."

"Sure. Bailey, could you get him a glass?"

The brunette nodded, then looked at him for a moment. Her gray eyes glittered in the lamplight. _Just an innocent farm girl_, he thought with a touch of guilt.

"We threw out your old clothes," the man explained after the girl left. "Hope you don't mind. I'm guessing you were attacked."

Attacked? Was that what happened? "Where did you find me?" he muttered.

"In the Howling Wood. My daughter found you, really. And our dog. You were in pretty bad shape, so we brought you here."

Pushing the covers down a bit, he looked at himself. The top half of him was covered in an old work shirt with a few light stains. His trousers were way too loose around the waist.

"We can adjust anything that doesn't fit. You kind of caught us off guard. I have to say, though, you didn't give us trouble in the way of injuries. You looked fine."

"No . . . wounds? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. Maybe someone just tried to take your clothes off you while you were unconscious. But that wouldn't explain how you got there."

He looked down again. "No, it wouldn't." He shut his eyes.

The man leaned toward him, his sharp eyes narrowing a little. "Do you remember anything of how you got there? Or what happened before?"

The sky grew lighter. He would have preferred to hide under the bedcovers for a while than face all this. Still, the man's gaze was demanding as well as sympathetic. "I don't," he finally answered. "I don't remember anything at all."

"Not even your family? Your name?"

He shook his head. The man sat back. "I'm sorry about that. Well, then, we'll let you stay here for a bit longer, until you're back on your feet."

Even without a memory, he was certain he couldn't stand living at this good man's expense without some proper agreement. "I . . . I don't want to burden you. I shouldn't. If there's anything I can do . . ."

"Oh, well, we _do_ live on a farm, but it can be hard work." The man paused and briefly eyed his shoulders and arms. "Would you be up to it?"

"I'm up to anything within reason," he answered without a thought. Did his mouth usually run away from him like that?

"It'll be a just few chores, and it won't be for forever. You're free to leave any time you wish."

Looking at his hands, he saw he was clenching the covers. It seemed too good, too fortunate . . . a blessing. Blessing? Why did that sound familiar? All of his memories must have been bouncing around inside his head somewhere; he just couldn't grasp them. They kept slipping away into the farther, darker niches that his conscious mind couldn't reach.

"My name is Labon, by the way," said the man. "Labon Sherdale."

He wanted to return the gesture, but his brain still drew a blank.

"It's fine," said Labon. "Give it some time. We'll call you whatever you want us to."

* * *

He didn't think of a name until a few days later. Tack and Bailey were sitting down to breakfast. Labon had already gone out to check on the horses and cattle and let them into the pastures. He was heading out to feed the chickens.

"Are you still doing homework, Tack?" Bailey nagged her brother as she took their dishes to the sink. "You're going to make us late!"

"Hold on, I'm almost done!" Tack shouted as he carefully inscribed another letter onto his slate.

He happened to be passing behind Tack when he caught sight of what the boy had written. It was a series of letters starting with capital A, each letter represented with its capital and lower-case form. Tack was on capital F. It was the last pair of letters on the top row that held his attention. The capital in particular pinned him. There was something about it – painful and incredible – that made him unable to erase it from his mind. Not while he fed the chickens, or cleaned out the barn, or washed the lunch dishes, or clean and carry equipment from the tool shed to the barn. He saw it in nearly everything he turned his eye to. It was the key to what he had lost, and he was ready to guard it with his life. Late that afternoon, when Labon returned for a short respite before rounding up the cattle, he approached him as casually as possible.

"I've thought of a name for you to call me."

Labon gave him his full attention. "Good. What is it?"

"D."

The rancher tilted his head slightly. "That's it? Just a letter?"

"That's all I need to have an identity."

Labon let his question hang for a moment longer, like a gardener who examines a seed to decide whether it can sprout or not. He then sighed. "Very well. D it is. Now let's go. I know you like to work toward the end of the day, so let's not waste time and get those cattle in."


	2. Chapter 1

For those of you very picky about dates, I don't know when exactly Bridget II celebrated her Golden Jubilee (50th anniversary of her reign), so if my placement of it in this story is not accurate, do forgive me.

And for those of you who are curious, I'm trying to stick to the timeline in the novels rather than the anime, although some stuff will be taken from the manga. Please let me know if any characters are behaving OOC, and I will slap them back to their senses.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, Trinity Blood or Vampire Hunter D, nor do I own the plot from Star Wars. Which is a shame, but oh well.

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 1

* * *

_3062 A.D._

Londinium's largest airport sat just a few miles away from the English Channel, lending all travelers a glimpse of the glittering strip of blue at the edge of the horizon. The view was best enjoyed from one of the waiting lounges of an airship's terminal – the height and the glass walls gave onlookers a vantage point from which to observe tiny ships in the distance and the way the water caught the sunlight at different times of the day. For Caterina Sforza, evening was about to descend upon Albion, and although she ached to return to Rome as soon as possible, she couldn't help but be fixated by the sight. It helped to calm her nerves a little, as did the hot mint tea in her cup.

A mechanical voice suddenly erupted over the intercom. "The _Beowulf_ will begin boarding in fifteen minutes. All passengers please prepare for departure as this flight is leaving on schedule. Make sure to collect all personal items before boarding."

_Ah, well_, she sighed to herself. At least she still had time to finish her cup. There was something else that concerned her, though, as she cast a glance about the lounge: where was Father Wordsworth?

"Tres? Has Father Wordsworth not arrived yet?"

"Affirmative, Lady Caterina. He has only 14.34 minutes remaining. There seems to be a recurring error in his time-management protocol."

"I suppose it should be expected." Caterina gazed at her companion, Father Tres Iqus, with a wry smile. "After all the time I've known him, it would be a shock to the system to see him punctual."

Tres did not respond immediately, as if puzzling over this problem in his part-machine, part-human brain. At last he replied, "As inconvenient as this error is, we must not expose the Duchess to a situation hazardous to her health."

Caterina nearly laughed, but refrained from doing so to spare Tres' feeling. Not that she was certain he had any. "Your consideration has been noted, Tres. Thank you."

"I am your machine, Lady Caterina. Maintaining your well-being is my prerogative."

The grateful and weary Duchess allowed herself to smile. She needed to after this long and tiring trip. She would have liked to pretend that she had come to Albion on holiday, but what period of respite could she afford at this time? Father Abel Nightroad had just completed his mission in Istvan, fortunately, but that still did not warrant a vacation for her. His mission only proved that Rosencreutz was not about to take a break themselves even just a year after the fiasco in Vienna. That is, a fiasco from _their_ perspective.

At this thought, Caterina gave another smile, though a touch more smug in nature.

To own the truth, however, Caterina hadn't come to Albion on account of the Orden. There was enough tension in Albionese politics to require her presence in the country's capital. Her concern, and the concern of the Vatican, over Albion had become the nation's foreign policies. It had for the longest time maintained an isolationist attitude and thoroughly disliked the interference of other countries, especially one as powerful as the Vatican. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, Caterina was duty-bound to keep a careful eye on that country in the event that its political climate made a dramatic shift. Certain figures within the Vatican, namely Francesco and his supporters, would have very much liked an excuse to launch a crusade against Albion and reap the benefits of attaining its wealth of Lost Technology.

Unlike her half-brother, Caterina had no interest in invasion, but an alliance of some kind would be desirable. The idea had become even more enticing to her as Rosencreutz's activities grew bolder over the past couple of years. Imagine how assured she would feel to know that another country, be it the Empire or Albion, would aid her in her fight against those terrorists. She certainly did not receive much support from the rest of Rome, her subordinates excluded.

The opportunity she dreamed of seemed to come at last when Albion's queen, Bridgett II, invited her to an international conference in Londinium in celebration of her Golden Jubilee. Caterina left Francesco a brief memo regarding the nature of her absence before making the hope-laden trek to Albion.

Almost four weeks had nearly crushed her aspirations. Despite her best efforts to gain an audience with Her Majesty, every force on earth seemed to be working against her. She regularly found herself surrounded by nobles who regarded her with nothing more than cold civility, and a few times she caught snippets of private conversation whose topic of choice happened to be the "prissy busybody from the Vatican". Even Wordsworth's presence didn't seem to abate the hostility aimed at her. Caterina acknowledged that she could not expect anything less, but it was a trial keeping her spirits up for that whole time. Despair began to creep into her heart when at last an invitation to a private conference between the Queen, the ambassador of Germanicus and herself arrived at her suite.

The meeting, to her disappoint, hadn't been a great success. Her presence at the conference appeared to be a gesture of civility rather than a genuine desire on the part of Her Majesty to discuss a possible alliance. The representative from Germanicus did most of the talking, which Caterina managed to benefit from only because she witnessed the Queen silencing him in mid-ramble. She and the Queen even shared a brief glance of understanding that awoke just a spark of hope within the cardinal. Thank goodness Her Majesty had as little tolerance for talkative men as she did.

When the time came to conclude the interview, the Queen persuaded Caterina to linger for a moment so she could express her gratitude for coming to Albion, and for her patience. She even hinted at an offer to hold a private conference just between themselves after the affairs surrounding her Jubilee celebration died down. Caterina assured her that she would be happy to oblige, although she would have to verify her schedule. Their parting ended on a high note, but as Caterina packed her things to return to Rome, she admitted with heavy reluctance that too little had been gained in comparison to the inconvenience this trip had wrought.

But at least a quiet understanding had been established between the two nations, and during the course of her visit she received another bit of good news that kept her adrift in a sea of frustration. Her subordinate Father Nightroad – good, old, reliable Abel – contacted her via a private network routed through the _Iron Maiden II _to report that he had rescued a file containing the blueprints of the infamous Star of Sorrow. Understanding how vital and dangerous this information was, the priest informed her that he would deliver the information himself.

Perhaps she had let herself get carried away with this news. Perhaps she feared too much what risks Abel would endure carrying such a valuable piece of information all the way from Istvan. Whatever the reason, Caterina answered him with a most unexpected response:

"That won't be necessary, Abel. I will be returning to Rome within a few days, and it will not take me nearly as long to get there as you. Of that I am certain."

Abel's face contorted into an expression of exaggerated indignation. "What do you mean by that? What could you possibly mean? Do you not think me trustworthy? After all the time we've known each other-!"

"Enough. Send the file to me. Tres and Wordsworth are traveling with me, so I will have plenty of protection."

"Send you the file?" Now the priest's voice grew more serious. "Are you sure that's the best solution? You said yourself this is a vital piece of information. The danger you'd be putting yourself in . . ."

"Would not be as great as the danger you'd risk for yourself." Caterina gave her friend a teasing grin. "I know you want to take on all the burdens of the world, Abel, but trust me on this. That file is better off in my possession. It'll be in Rome before you. Would you please send it?"

She watched with amusement as Abel fiddled with his glasses. "Well . . . I . . . _ugh_. Fine, if you're sure. But if anything disastrous happens, I'm going to . . ."

Caterina arched an eyebrow. "You're going to what?"

Her agent gulped loudly. "I'm, um, going to hold Tres personally responsible."

She chuckled. "If you say so. Now, the file, please?"

Sitting in the airport now, she had the memory cube carefully concealed inside her handbag. She would feel easier once she and her companions were aboard and settled in their cabin, but for now she was more worried about William missing the flight altogether.

"I have sighted Father William Walter Wordsworth," announced Tres just as the voice on the intercom announced the five-minute warning. The Professor, in a display of epitomic absent-mindedness, stumbled into the waiting area with two over-packed suitcases, a half-done tie, an askew top hat, a cane hanging from his arm and an unlit pipe in his mouth.

Caterina put down her tea and shook her head. "Honestly, Professor. This is no way for a knight of Albion to appear in public, especially before travelling abroad."

William removed the pipe from his mouth and took a breath. "On the contrary, milady. When one sees a gentleman of Albion in such disarray, one will know at once that he can be doing nothing else but travelling abroad." He bent over while catching the rest of his breath.

"Because he is clearly running from trouble, I suppose?" Caterina, still smiling, finished the last of her tea, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and collected her smaller carry-ons. Tres caught hold of her suitcase. "Remember, Wordsworth: you are also a representative of the Vatican. Let's try not to embarrass ourselves too much, shall we?"

* * *

Despite the northward loop the airship had to make to avoid crossing the airspaces of Francia and the Four-City Alliance – a rather gratuitous controversy between the countries, in Caterina's opinion – the _Beowulf_ would arrive in Rome in approximately eight hours. Although the ship had plenty of accommodations, including a dining room, ballroom and even a hot tub and sauna, the young Duchess preferred to reside in her cabin for the majority of the flight. She needed a much-deserved nap.

Tres stated he would remain in the cabin to ensure that his mistress was neither disturbed nor attacked while she slept, so Wordsworth found himself alone and at the mercy of his restless mind. He and his former prodigy, now his administrative superior, shared a brief exchange as they boarded the ship regarding the trouble he encountered on his way to the airport. How in all honesty could he be blamed for the bad traffic and the uncooperative cab driver who insisted he increase the tip for all the trouble Wordsworth had given him? What trouble? He simply gave the man a bit of advice on where to go to avoid the traffic they nonetheless faced on the way there. He may have commented on the man's driving techniques as well. Wordsworth regaled Caterina with all of this, hoping to find just a smidgen of sympathy, but instead received mirthful smiles and chuckles at his expense. To assure him of her concern for his well-being, she patted him on the shoulder and promised to compensate for the extra cash the priest had been forced to relinquish to his enraged driver. Then she announced her desire to rest and retired to the cabin.

Wordsworth had managed to eat a hearty breakfast before leaving for the airport, and unlike his coworker Father Nightroad, his metabolism did not break down food so quickly. It was the blessing and curse of middle age. Therefore his appetite was not yet whetted, so the dining room held no interest for him. Instead he occupied the first half-hour of their flight gazing at the view below. He could still make out the shape of Albion's eastern shore as the ship made the first northbound leg. William did not make a common habit of staring out windows during a flight, but this particular route held an interest to him. Only a few times in his life did he acquire the chance to look down on that sparsely inhabited region known by natives of Albion as the Wildes. The region seemed to belong to a different era – one of savagery and lawlessness. Most people who lived in the southern half of the island did not feel inclined to travel northward into that barbaric wasteland, except maybe en route to Erin. There was some talk of technological and social improvement in certain areas, mainly along the border of the civilized world, but Wordsworth had never found the opportunity to verify it with his own eyes.

The Wildes filled him with scientific curiosity. What sort of people lived there? How many of the folktales were true? It was a wholly different world – that was what intrigued Wordsworth. To explore lands unknown, to venture through and discover what educated men have only dreamed of . . .

But Wordsworth was not an adventurer. He was a professor of the doctoral and pedagogical type, but he was not nearly as inclined to the latter as he wished to believe. Research and discovery drove him, made him burn with anticipation. To go into those forgotten lands would be a death wish . . . yet the Professor continued to dream.

As the ship elevated in altitude, the land Wordsworth watched with mixed exhilaration became obscured by cottony wisps.

_I suppose that's enough dreaming for now_, he thought while removing his pipe from his mouth. It suddenly occurred to him that he still hadn't lit it. _Humph. I hate old age_. He turned about and began to make his way back to the cabin.

That was when the ship began to shake. Violently.

Wordsworth flailed his arms for something to steady him. He had had enough foresight to carry his cane with him, which he now extended and pressed against a nearby pillar to keep him from falling.

_Turbulence?_ he wondered. This seemed much too strong for mere turbulence. He leaned against the pillar and waited for the vibration to cease.

There was no time to sigh in relief when it did stop. After the ship returned to stillness, a voice broke out all over the craft:

"This is your pilot speaking. We apologize for the interruption of your flight, but due to an unforeseen inconvenience, we are forced to search your ship for something that belongs to us. Please remain where you are and do not intervene, or we will be forced to kill you."

A freezing chill ran through Wordsworth. What happened? Who was that? Certainly not the pilot. Blood-thirsty menace soaked this new voice. Wordsworth looked behind him out the ship's windows again. Looking directly at eye-level, he noticed for the first time that something cast a shadow over some nearby clouds. It could have been another cloud . . . an awfully big, dense cloud.

"In order to make this interruption as brief as possible, we will require the cooperation of all on board. If you do not comply, it will only serve to risk the safety of everyone here."

Wordsworth released the pillar and walked over to the window. There was definitely something large looming above them. The priest looked up. His mettle faltered when his eyes met an unnerving sight.

"Now, we courteously ask that we speak with one of your illustrious passengers, with whom we have business."

The shadow came from a darkly-colored airship twice the size of the _Beowulf_. Its design was not like that of any human craft.

"Would Lady Caterina Sforza please come up to the cockpit?"


	3. Chapter 2

Do please leave reviews after you read, if only to critique. Also, if anyone feels knowledgable enough to answer some questions about Hugue, Leon or Kaya Syokka, feel free to drop a line. There are some things I need to know about their timelines that are revealed only in later RAM novels. Which will take forever to be released in North America. :( 'Tis sad.

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 2

* * *

The story had been passed down for generations, spanning centuries of birth and death, somehow surviving beyond the weak flesh of its tellers. What propelled them to carry it on? Did there lie a hidden spell or power within the words of the tale? It wasn't even so much the tale itself, but the idea behind the tale that seemed to capture its listeners. Anyone outside the family would have dismissed it as fanciful yarns to make children tuck themselves tightly under the covers in both fear and excitement.

It had been more than that to the Sforzas, though. The story gave them distinction, even beyond the prestige they earned as nobles, governors, politicians and warriors. It was the promise of protection, a reminder of a distant guardian not of this world. That's not to say that it affected their lives in the real world . . . fairytales don't apply to reality.

_Will you tell me the story of Sir Alucard again? Please?_

_Again, Caterina? I think you have it committed to memory by now. _

_But you tell it better!_

_Oh, all right. But don't let your father know I still tell you this story._

_I won't! I promise!_

_All right. I guess I'll start at the beginning, yes? A long time ago, there was a great war between the humans and the vampires. Each side had very strong warriors, but none so strong as the one called Alucard. Luckily for us, he fought for the humans. No matter how many enemies he faced, no one could ever defeat him. He had amazing and mysterious powers that even his allies didn't fully understand. _

_Just when the war was about to end, a dark wizard appeared. No one knows where he came from, or which side he fought for. The truth is that he came for the sole purpose of fighting the strange warrior whom no one else could destroy. Alucard accepted his challenge and battled with him for a very long time. The duel was brutal, each man summoning magic and monsters of unthinkable terror. But finally, after fighting for hours on the top of a mountain, Alucard destroyed the wizard and threw what remained of him into the abyss. Everyone believed that the wizard had died. Everyone accept Alucard. He was not so sure, for the wizard had been a very powerful foe, and he might find a way to return to our world. After the war ended, and the humans drove the vampires to the East, Alucard decided he would go West and wait in the Wildes of Albion, his homeland, until the day he would be needed by humanity again. In fact, before leaving, he told your ancestor, Duke Francesco Sforza of Milan, that if he should need his help, he should look in the wilderness of Albion._

_How did our ancestor know Alucard?_

_Hmm, that's a good question. The story doesn't really say, although I heard another version that says the wizard had kidnapped Francesco's wife to provoke Alucard into a fight. _

_Maybe Alucard was really Francesco's servant. _

_I don't know. That seems possible. _

_Mama?_

_Yes?_

_Do you think he's really there? I mean _really_ there, not just 'real' in my head like you always say he is. _

_I don't know for certain, my dear, but it's nice to think that there's someone we can ask for help should be we need it. As well as God, of course._

_I wish he were real. I'd like to meet him._

_Really? He sounds a bit scary to me. _

_Oh, he wouldn't scare me. If I can talk Julio Scarlatti into picking flowers for me, I can get someone like Alucard to help me._

_Well, then, if we ever do need him, I'll let you do all the talking. _

Fairytales don't apply to reality. Ever.

* * *

Caterina awoke when the ship started to shake. The oddest dream had taken hold of her mind shortly before the interruption – a fusion of memory and the unrestrained meanderings of her subconscious. It hadn't been altogether unpleasant, but she couldn't think why her mind now decided to revisit that part of her life. Had her trip left a deeper imprint on her mind than she realized?

Any further thoughts on the subject evaporated at the sound of a threatening voice booming over the airship's intercom system. Puzzled, Caterina sat up in her bed and listened carefully. When the speaker finished what he had to say, a loud click followed.

Caterina's skin broke out in a cold sweat. What was this? How could this be? _Something that belongs to us . . . please come up to the cockpit_. If they sought the only thing of infinite value she knew she carried on her person, she still couldn't imagine who could lay claim to something like that. The original owners, Gyula Kadar and his wife, were dead. Who else was there?

A possible candidate entered Caterina's head, and she wished with all her heart she could dismiss it. This would be a rather bold move for them. Why not wait for a later opportunity to reclaim the file by a more subtle means? Did they not want to keep their existence a secret? Or maybe . . .

No! It couldn't be that! There'd been hardly any time for that to be possible!

The cardinal leapt out of bed, shook off the ensuing dizziness and laid her hand on the doorknob. Before she could turn it, the door swung out of its own accord.

Well, not entirely.

* * *

Careful to remain as inconspicuous as possible, Wordsworth made his way toward the front of the ship to gain a better assessment of the crisis. The first people he encountered threw panicked looks in all directions, as if trying to predict where disaster would strike first. So far there had been no physical sign of danger – only the voice indicated the presence of a threat. When the Professor reached the front section of the ship, it was a different story.

A flash of movement sent the priest pressing himself against the wall of a corridor perpendicular to the hallway he had been traversing. He held his breath and peeked ever so slightly around the corner.

Some people also walking through the hall gave startled cries while a horde of military-dressed figures entered the passage. One by one they seized people by the collars or shoulders and pinned them to the walls. Each frightening visage stood at about six-and-a-half feet with large black coats hiding most of their bodies, combat boots on their feet, and helmets and gas masks concealing their faces. The Professor breathed a little easier seeing that these fiends weren't automatically slaughtering people on the spot. After each of them examined a person whom, he guessed, did not match the appearance of Caterina Sforza, the goons dropped them and continued on their way. _Perhaps these people can be reasoned with_, he thought with hard-pressed optimism.

That optimism was pounded to smoldering ash when he saw what happened next. A passenger who had been stopped by one of the thugs seemed to think he could bring an end to this invasion. He whipped out a pistol and aimed it at the departing group.

"Hold it! What do you think you're doing? What right do you think you have to—"

The man didn't have a chance to finish. A flash of something dark and metallic ended his speech. It was followed by a red spray and a head rolling across the floor. Two women also in the hallway screamed bloody murder. The two other gentlemen nearly went into shock.

Wordsworth felt his insides nearly collapse. _So that's how it is, is it? That's definitely not good_. He racked his brain for a plan. At the rate these men – or creatures – were moving, they would catch up to Caterina in no time. A matter of minutes to be more precise.

But William Walter Wordsworth could do a lot in a matter of minutes. He could give Tres and his boss time to find a suitable hiding place and configure a means of escape. Or he could backtrack and find them both himself.

His decision was nearly made for him when the goons resumed their original course and nearly came upon him. His means of retreat cut off, he shuffled down the corridor to the nearest door. To his relief, the doorknob turned and opened for him, and his slipped inside what he realized afterwards was a private restroom. Just as he stepped inside, one of the intruders turned down the same corridor and withdrew an ax hidden inside the coat.

The figure stalked in the dim light of the passage, its gaze apparently fixed on the door the Professor just entered. Did the creature sense his presence there? Or had it detected the man's movement near the door just as it came upon the passage?

Either way, it assumed its prey was behind the door. It placed a large hand on the knob and gave a hard tug. Without even turning the knob, the goon ripped the entire door and part of its frame out of the wall.

"Why, hello," said a priest with a glinting blade in his hand. In half a second, blood spattered everywhere.

* * *

Near the very front of the passengers' section of the airship, another group of similarly dressed thugs processed among a squall of frightened travelers. At the head of this ghastly parade, a figure wrapped in a dull-brown cloak eyed his victims with orbs that glittered in the darkness of his hood. The upper half of his face could not be seen, but anyone who cared to look upon him could plainly observe the pair of fangs that jutted out from his upper gums. He made sure they were seen as he broke into a hideous smile.

"Come, now, why all the long faces? We are only looking for one measly person. Just hand her over to us and we won't cause you any more trouble. I'm sure you Terrans are all very, very busy."

The speaker could hear babies wailing, men swallowing and women sobbing quietly, but he met no verbal response.

"If you refuse to cooperate," the figure continued calmly, "it may be our unfortunate duty to kill you all."

A gasp of horror circulated around the room. A rush of satisfaction filled the fearsome leader.

"Th-this person you're looking for," spoke up one nervous man.

The figure turned his eyes on him. "Yes?"

The man rubbed his sweating hands together. "How do you expect us to know her by sight? I myself am from Albion, not the Papal States. How should I know who to look for?"

The stranger hissed through his fangs. "Ah, it warms my heart to see you Terran so eager to betray one another. Very well, then. The woman we are looking for is hard to miss – blonde hair, grey eyes, exquisitely beautiful features. Undoubtedly she will be traveling with members of her agency, particularly a shorter man with reddish-brown hair. Tres Iqus is his name. Also answers to the codename Gunslinger. Should that be sufficient description for you?"

The man who had raised the question fell silent. Now no one who had heard the figure speak could plead ignorance for their lack of cooperation.

"I want all of you to look hard for this person. I expect great things of you." Although the fang-filled grin hadn't left the stranger's face, neither had the acidic sarcasm left his voice. It seemed even he couldn't completely disguise his foul humor in reaction to the cowardly behavior of these people. Without another glance, he continued his way down the room with his terrifying henchmen in tow.

_We'll find you, Sforza_, the man thought, his eyes still glowing in determination. _No matter where you run, we'll find you and show you the consequence of interfering with us. Vatican scum. _

* * *

Caterina just began to catch her breath after she and Tres halted their flight towards the back of the aircraft. Though too winded to speak right away, she mentally thanked her cyborg subordinate for having the wherewithal to tap into the ship's database and pull up a map of the ship. He had located the emergency exit compartment that contained a rack of parachutes evidently reserved for the crew. The fact that this room had remained untouched upon their arrival disturbed Caterina. Just how long had it taken these hijackers to capture the crewmembers before announcing their arrival? Had they been on the ship the entire time?

"Put on one of these parachutes, Duchess of Milan," said Tres in a tone that anyone would have been reluctant to contradict.

The young cardinal looked over at the parachutes packs and immediately suffered from a fit of nausea. As vital as it was for her to escape, the idea of dropping out of a ship thousands of miles above the ground was far from trifling.

"What about Father Wordsworth? We can't leave him behind."

"Your safety takes priority, Duchess. Father Wordsworth is trained for combat and can endeavor to escape on his own. You, however, run too great a risk by hesitating for him."

She listened to Tres without interruption. When he finished she shook her head, keeping all calmness. "I understand your concern, but that's not good enough. If I leave without him, these people, whoever they are, might try to use him as a hostage. Or simply kill him. I won't allow either."

The youthful-looking cyborg's expression did not change, but a ring of concern entered his otherwise monotone voice. "Lady Caterina . . ."

"Lady Caterina?"

It was yet another voice. She didn't know how it was possible, since no intercom speaker existed in this compartment. Was this speaker not even on the ship?

"Lady Caterina, if you can hear me, you should realize that escape is futile. If you do not surrender yourself to us immediately, the passengers on this craft will begin to die. Do not think we won't do it; your life at this moment is worth more to us than the lives of everyone else on this ship put together. Doesn't that flatter you?"

The voice, though pleasant in tone, chuckled darkly.

"If your conscience can't stand the thought of you being responsible for so many deaths, then I recommend you come to the cockpit. If it can . . . then you're a greater monster than we are. And I commend you for it."

_Monster_. Caterina bit her lip.

"We'll just have to enjoy chasing you." Another chuckle.

"Tres." Her tone was as cold as winter and as hard as diamonds. "Find Wordsworth. No. Stay a minute longer. There's something I need to do. When I'm done, find Wordsworth and get off this ship. And whatever you do, don't come looking for me."

If Tres could have started in disbelief at such a statement, he would have. Instead he said a bit loudly, "Lady Caterina—!"

"That's an order."

* * *

Wordsworth shook the blood off his blade as he stared at another fallen fiend. He couldn't keep this up for long – not if the whole ship was infested with these things. They had speed and power that matched those of Methuselah – perhaps they _were_ Methuselah. The priest had managed well enough one-on-one and with the element of surprise, but he couldn't hold out on his own forever.

"I have to find Tres and Caterina. I can't imagine what's become of them by now. I just hope Tres had the mind to bring the Jericho." Wordsworth considered it for a moment, then, as inappropriate as it was for the present situation, he chuckled. "What am I thinking? Of course he brought it. He's not Gunslinger for nothing!"

He slipped the sword-cane underneath the folds of his cassock and moved as quickly as possible toward their cabin.

The cabin the Duchess had reserved for herself and her companions, though spacious, stood in hallway of other similarly adorned cabins, which should at least give her a mild means of concealment should the ax-wielding menaces arrive and scour the corridor. When Wordsworth finally arrived at it, no destruction or disturbance made itself apparent in the form of scuff marks or footprints on the walls and floor. Wordsworth spotted the door to their quarters and rapped on it.

"Lady Caterina?" he whispered. "Tres? Are you in there?" He stepped back. The door was still ajar.

Panic struck his heart. He rushed in, fearing the worst. No sign of bloodshed or struggle. No bullet holes. The room looked as serene as when they first entered it when they boarded.

Wordsworth sighed. "Thank the Lord. I guess this means I'll have to find them, though. Where could they have gone to?"

The priest suddenly straightened up. Did his ears deceive him? No. There was an army of footsteps approaching this hall. And he left the door wide open.

His mind raced. Should he face them? Flee? Or hide? Whirling around her took in the room. He had one chance. Praying that these creatures weren't nearly as intelligent as he feared, he dropped to the floor and crawled under the nearest bed, a spacious queen-sized mattress.

_This is ridiculous. I'm reduced to hiding like a child. Why have I let myself come to this?_

On the other hand, he knew he could never take on a large number of these armed goons. And if he kept them distracted, that meant there were fewer thugs looking for Caterina. The chances weren't all that much more in her favor, but it was something.

The Professor held his breath when a horde of black combat boots came into view. After a moment's hesitation, they separated and began searching the room. He winced slightly when he heard closet doors and clothes being torn down without consideration.

Maybe he should have waited to unpack later.

Still, he did not make a sound even as the cretins went through suitcases and dress bags and ripped the covers off the bed. He listened to this commotion as sweat trickled down the back of his collar and clung to the edge of his nose.

_Go on, now. You've done enough to our wardrobe here.  
_

At last, the boots walked back toward the door. They seemed satisfied that nothing was to be found here.

_That's right. Run along, whoever you are._

Wordsworth would not let himself move or breathe until every last pair of feet had departed. It did puzzle him that though most of the creatures had left the room, the group waited immediately outside the door, which forced them to crowd together. Were they waiting for their commander or whoever to come out last?

All but two pairs of feet remained inside the room. Wordsworth stared at those boots with immense concentration. If he didn't know any better, those boots resembled footwear specially made for soldiers in the German army.

_Wait a minute . . . Germanicus? No! It can't be . . ._

A pair of hands came down under the frame of the bed, grasped the edge, and flipped the whole thing over. Wordsworth lay there exposed to this infantry of German-clad thugs in gas masks. Any hope of being taken alive evaporated when he saw them raise their axes above their heads.

Sensing his doom, Wordsworth unsheathed his sword and scowled.

He could at the very least take a few with him in the end.

_Too bad I didn't realize who your masters were sooner._

The blades descended.


	4. Chapter 3

I've decided I will move this fic to the normal Trinity Blood section and keep the x-over description in the summary. For those of you following, thanks for your patience. Please don't forget to leave a review! And let me know if there are any issues in characterization. :)

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 3

* * *

The Professor lay on the floor prepared for nearly anything. Death, though undesired, was among the things he expected to happen. He held up his blade and awaited the fall of the axes that would more than likely chop him to mincemeat.

That was why his heart almost stopped when he heard the report of gunfire.

Three of the armored fiends who stood in the back were instantly cut down, their heads having exploded from the power of a bullet spewed from the Jericho. The shot must have been made at point-blank range in order to penetrate the thickness of those helmets, but Wordsworth didn't doubt his eyes. If the owner of these bullets was who he thought he was, anything was possible.

"All right, Tres!"

The two leading brutes, startled by the sudden interruption, whipped around and forgot their would-be victim. They charged up their nervous systems and entered that state attributed only to vampires – haste-mode. At the speed of sound, they swung their heavy axes through the air in the hopes of eliminating their newest target.

"0.28 seconds too late."

Despite the limited space, Tres managed to dodge his way down the corridor away from the reach of the axes. The narrow space caused trouble for the goons as they tumbled over one another trying to catch their assailant.

It didn't help that this moment of chaos allowed Wordsworth to assume an attack stance and launch after the creatures in his path with a swipe of his blade.

Within minutes, the goons were neutralized, if not destroyed. "They can return to animation if their spines have not been completely severed," noted Tres once the smoke from his weapon cleared.

"I see," replied Wordsworth solemnly. "Let's take a better look at our friends."

He bent down and removed the mask and helmet from one disembodied head, only to meet an even more repulsive sight. Whoever this creature, or person, had been, its eyes had since been sown shut and its skin horribly marred by surgery. A piece of equipment the size of a spray can had been lodged into the half-sown mouth from which fangs still peered out.

"These creatures must have been Methuselah once!" Wordsworth remarked with unmitigated horror.

"Their appearance indicates they have been dead for several days," noted Tres without a hint of emotion. "Maybe months, if they still have retained their regenerative capabilities."

Wordsworth swallowed. It must have been _them_. Who else would have the gall to do something so . . . inhuman? Unable to stand the sight a moment longer, he dropped the head on the floor.

"This is an ugly situation, indeed. We need to get Caterina out before these things really become a problem." Wordsworth looked around. Only now did he notice that something else was amiss. "Tres? Where _is_ the Duchess?"

The cyborg's eyes seemed to falter for a moment, as if he were too ashamed to look Wordsworth in the eye. But the moment passed, and he fixed his gaze on the other priest. "Lady Caterina has ordered that we evacuate the ship."

"Yes, Tres, but . . . where is she?"

Tres did not blink. "She has decided to remain behind. She will surrender herself to the enemy."

Wordsworth's sword slipped from his grasp. It fell to the floor with a deafening _clang_.

"What? Why? How . . . how could she do that?"

"She would not allow any more people be terminated for her sake. She has ordered that I take you to the emergency exit compartment, and that I will not attempt to rescue her."

"This is outrageous! Those people will kill her! What other reason could they have for abducting her like this? We can't let her do this, Tres!"

"Lady Caterina has comprehended the situation and explained her reason for her actions very clearly. Although I do not find this course of action the most logical, I am bound to serve her will, Father Wordsworth. If you do not comply, I will continue on alone."

How could the Professor believe what he was hearing? Tres would be the last person to abandon Caterina in a situation like this, even on an order. "How can you do this? How is it even possible?"

"There is no time to waste, Professor. We must depart before the enemy begins to search for us. If they are aware of our presence, they will increase the difficulty of escape."

The baffled priest still could not wrap his head around the idea, but Tres already began walking away. Caterina must have said something to convince Tres that leaving her to _them_ was in her best interest, but how?

_My dear Duchess, what _are_ you up to? Please tell me you have a plan. _

After a few seconds of contemplating and debating with himself, William Wordsworth hefted a despairing sigh and followed after the cyborg.

* * *

The figure in the brown cloak strolled into the main dining area, located in the midsection of the airship. Anyone who had been there earlier had fled, probably to avoid interrogation at the hands of the creatures called Auto Jägers.

He sighed and removed his hood for a moment, ruffling his sweat-drenched hair. The thing was so damned hot, but his superiors deemed it necessary to lend enough ambiguity to his identity, yet assure the passengers that he was a Methuselah. Wouldn't the Vatican love that story once it reached their ears? A cohort of unknown 'vampires' attacks a human vessel carrying the one and only Cardinal Caterina Sforza, who then carry her away in another vessel of Imperial design. Even with discrepancies in evidence, such as the German-style clothing of the Auto Jägers, Cardinal Francesco di Medici would undoubtedly blame the Empire and demand a declaration of war from the Pope and the other cardinals. Then, finally, this tension between the two powers will be broken once and for all. And the man in the cloak felt certain he knew who the victor would be.

For now, however, he couldn't get ahead of himself. First, the Duchess had to be captured, and she was proving to be more slippery than expected.

"Flameschwert?" came a voice through his earpiece. "I hope you're not slacking off down there."

With a low growl, the Methuselah pressed a finger to the device. "On the contrary, sir, I'm sweating from the effort. It's a shame I cannot remove this bothersome cloak. It would allow me to do my job more effectively."

An unsettling chuckle buzzed in his ear. "I think you have forgotten, my pet, that the windows on that ship are not specially tinted like the ones of Imperial airships. They might provide some minor protection, but remove that cloak entirely and you'll suffer some pretty nasty burns."

The vampire bit back another growl and pulled the hood back over his head. He hated it when his superior caught him on annoying details like that. Why couldn't these Terrans install proper windows into their ships? Surely they weren't _that_ unadvanced.

"Just a little longer, my pet," the voice cooed. "I have a sneaking suspicion that the Duchess will cave in to her guilt over causing more deaths. If only I could simply let my toys loose, but the Magician says it's not the right time. That would make your job easier, wouldn't it?"

The cloaked man didn't deign to respond. He wasn't going to get into another conversation like this. As much as he despised the Vatican and the Terran, he didn't have a flare for unrestrained bloodshed as his boss did. Such talk only ruined his appetite.

Ready to continue on his way, he halted only when he heard the other man exclaim, "Whoop! I think we've found the birdie."

Indeed, when the Methuselah focused in around him, one of the Auto Jäagers signaled him to come over to one of the hallways that branched out from the dining area. He gave a quiet sigh. _Finally_.

* * *

Father Wordsworth examined the parachutes before them. "You still haven't explained to me how Caterina convinced you to leave her?"

"My function is to obey Lady Caterina's orders. She has ordered me to trust her in her judgment, and I will obey."

Grimacing, the Professor nonetheless selected a pack and slipped it on. "Does she have an idea why the Orden is after her? I assume that's who it is, given the type of foot soldiers they use."

"That information is strictly confidential." Tres too slipped on a pack and approached the door, ready to pull the release lever.

"Confidential? Why would it be confidential for me?"

"That does not require an explanation at this time. Our current mission is to depart from the aircraft. Is your parachute secure, Father Wordsworth?"

The more Wordsworth thought about it, the less it made sense. If she fell into the hands of Rosencreutz, how did Caterina intend to escape? With her brother's help? Very unlikely. What was the point in putting herself in that position in the first place? What advantage was there aside from sparing the lives of a few hundred people? Not that that shouldn't have been important, but still.

"What about afterwards? What did she tell you we should do after we escape?"

"That too is confidential information. I cannot reveal the nature of my assignment until it has been completed."

"You can't be seri—"

"Brace yourself, Father Wordsworth."

Tres threw the latch, and side door slid open for them. The drop in pressure nearly sucked them out of the compartment.

* * *

The capture of Caterina Sforza hadn't presented much of a challenge. Admittedly, she gave the Auto Jägers some trouble when she surprised them with a shower of silver bullets issued from a pistol Tres had bequeathed to her on request. This means of self-defense did not inconvenience the undead fiends for long, though. The recoil from the shots left the cardinal unsteady, and in a moment of respite one Auto Jäger appeared next to her and extracted the weapon from her grasp. Even then she tried to run, but the effort was wasted. It only took one thug to prevent her from going anywhere, and only two were required to fully secure her. She kicked up a good fuss, but it only made the Methuselah who had the privilege of escorting her to his superiors snicker.

"You poor Terrans. When stripped of your mechanical soldiers and weapons, you really have no defense against the natural powers of the Methuselah. To think you have the audacity to challenge us and call us 'monsters.' Well, I hope my associates will make it clear to you and the Vatican that your hopes of making yourself equal to the Empire are imbecilic."

When the word 'Empire' came up, Caterina had a moment of doubt. Had she misjudged her enemies? Were they a radical faction of the Empire? She had heard rumors of a group of 'hard-liners' who felt that coexistence could never truly exist between humans and vampires, but that didn't explain their use of these creatures in non-Imperial uniform.

_It must be a bluff_, she concluded as her captors paraded her through the rest of the airship back to the cockpit. She kept her posture straight and her gaze forward, but she could still feel the unwelcomed eyes of the passengers. Whether mocking or pitying, their attention provoked a feeling of mortification in the Duchess that the ancient Cleopatra could not bear the thought of, and as an alternative chose suicide. This march seemed eternal before the cardinal finally arrived at the bow of the _Beowulf_. She witnessed the captivity of the pilots, who had oxygen masks strapped to their faces, and the slaughter of much of the crew who either defied the invaders or attempted to escape. She also saw how the Methuselah and his henchmen had entered the ship: a hole two meters wide loomed above her head, its edges partially melted. It was as if a giant fireball had burned through the ship's hull.

That also explained the dramatic drop in air pressure. Caterina nearly collapsed from lack of oxygen. The Methuselah did not hesitate to grab her and carry her up the ladder that dangled above the hole. A moment before passing out, Caterina spotted the source of the latter. An enormous airship that exceeded even the size of the _Iron Maiden II_ floated among the clouds, just on the cusp of the upper atmosphere.

A minute later she came to. The return to an oxygen-rich environment did the trick. When Caterina opened her eyes and looked up, though, she almost wished she hadn't regained consciousness.

Aside from the bevy of thugs she had already become acquainted with, three men in black uniforms stood before her. She did not recognize the two on either side, although she guessed that the one on her left holding a cloak was the Methuselah who brought her here. The man on the right had striking features that in more pleasant circumstances might have been worth her admiration. But she also noticed a sadistic gleam in his eyes that contradicted the angelic smile.

The man in the middle was her only point of reference. Him she recognized immediately, with his long black hair and lifeless eyes. His presence made her stomach writhe in detestation.

"I see. So you and your group are behind this after all." She blew a bit of hair out of her eye. "Nice to see you again, Kämpfer."

The man before her broadened his smile. He flicked a bit of ash from the tip of his cigarillo. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Caterina. Welcome aboard the _Vladimir_."


	5. Chapter 4

Okay, I'm flippin' updating before I run to class. I FINALLY churned out this chapter last night. Yeah, took me long enough, and I already had the next chapter completed (though still needs proofreading). Hope you enjoy.

P.S. I don't quite know how it happened, but I somehow ended up on a Radu-psych spree. And it'll probably never happen again in this series. Nothing personal against the guy - he's just not one of my favs. So, enjoy it while you can, Radu fans!

* * *

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 4

* * *

The situation was almost too surreal for Caterina. It was one thing to face her enemies in an open setting like Venice, or in her own territory like Rome. Standing on familiar ground for a confrontation helped her stay rooted in the moment. To be here, though, on a strange ship entirely controlled by her foes, utterly disconnected from all hope of rescue . . . it was almost thrilling. Terrifying and thrilling.

A vague curiosity dominated her emotions for the moment. How large was the ship, exactly? What types of defenses or weapons had been implemented into the design? How many floors and compartments did it contain?

Now that she thought of it, did the ship have a dining area? A pang of hunger assaulted her stomach.

She quietly clucked her tongue. _For heaven's sake! Focus, Caterina! You're behaving worse than Abel! _

She could only guess at her current location. The room she awoke in was tiny, with four walls and a ceiling of searing white. Her seat, bolted to one of the walls, was the only piece of furniture. It came as no surprise that her hands were fastened down to the armrests, as were her frail ankles to the base of the cube-shaped chair.

Caterina tossed her hair back as she looked up at her captors again. "I'm afraid I can't give praise to your accommodations."

"It's a shame I cannot give you a proper tour of our vessel, Duchess," replied Kämpfer. The man his comrades addressed as Panzermagier exhaled a stream of smoke toward the cardinal's face. His voice exuded civility that, though polite and charming, bore the accent of an icy morning. "I think you would be impressed. The _Vladimir_ is the most sophisticated and massive conglomeration of Lost Technology our Orden has yet obtained. Of course, size isn't everything, but I dare you to attempt to convince these two—" He waved his cigarillo-wielding hand toward the young men beside him, "—to believe it."

"It is truly a shame," said Caterina in a frozen tone. "I can hardly believe any ship could match the _Iron Maiden_ in size and power."

"Well, our Red Baroness would argue otherwise if she were here," said Kämpfer. "She has a ship of her own which she cherishes deeply. It's unfortunate that you and your agents reaped so much damage to it last year. She's still very bitter about it."

The Duchess gave a sickeningly sweet smile. "I am sorry to hear that. Do send her my apologies."

"Panzermagier," broke in the handsome youth on the right, his expression now altered to one of boredom. "Aren't we wasting time with this tête-a-tête? There is business to attend to."

The Magician did not turn to his companion as he sighed. "Yes, you're quite right. I suppose we should get straight to the matter."

His cigarillo had shrunk to the size of his little finger. After casting a keen eye over it, Kämpfer dropped the stub onto the floor and crushed it with the toe of his boot. "Right. Well, Lady Caterina, we have a little bone to pick with you."

"Have you, now?" said Caterina. She remained unruffled.

Kämpfer clasped his gloved hands behind his back and alighted his gaze on the beautiful prisoner. Caterina returned the gaze without hesitation, although the man's fish-like eyes made her skin crawl.

"It has come to our attention," Panzermagier began, "that a few days ago, your agent Father Abel Nightroad obtained a copy of the blueprints to a weapon that once belonged to the vampire ruler of Hungary, Gyula Kadar. This set of blueprints had . . . _escaped_ the notice of the Orden, who had for several months been working to reactivate the Marquis' weapon – the Star of Sorrow. I am certain you are already familiar with its capabilities."

"Thanks to your handiwork, yes." Caterina's lips pulled into a tight line. She remembered those horrifying few hours when she witnessed the awful force of the ancient machine as it unleashed its wrath upon the Vatican army as it marched toward Istvan. How could she forget it?

"We had only become aware of the second set of plans agent Nightroad discovered when my colleague took a peek into your network and found that a large file had been sent to your portable computer in Albion. Once we ascertained that the blueprints were now in your possession, we thought we'd stopped by and . . . give you a lift."

"How thoughtful," said Caterina, "but it's a wasted gesture. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Now, please don't play that game with us, Lady Caterina." Kämpfer, still speaking with gentility, took a step towards her. His eyes narrowed. "We know Mr. Abel transferred the blueprints to you. Our only desire is that you return the plans to us. We took the liberty of searching you and your belongings; nothing was to be found. You must have concealed them somewhere or with someone. If you tell us where they are, we will let you go free and withhold retribution against your agents. Doesn't that sound fair?"

Dietrich's lips returned to a smile. The blue-haired Methuselah wore a more reserved expression, but nonetheless seemed to enjoy watching the oppressed cardinal.

The Magician bent down slightly, causing a few strands of hair to fall off his left shoulder. "So, will you cooperate, milady?"

"I already told you: I have no idea what you're talking about. I am the Minister of Foreign Affairs from the Vatican, and am returning from a diplomatic visit to Albion. Nothing more."

Silence filled the room and burned as intensely as the searing white light. Although Kämpfer's expression did not change, Caterina sensed for the first time a darkening in his countenance that had nothing to do with face or posture. It was as if the air around him had become denser – electrified. Without understanding why, she felt the hairs on her neck stand up and her skin break into goose bumps. Nevertheless, she balled her hands into fists and maintained the same expression of stoic defiance.

She understood that the worst thing she could do right now was underestimate Panzermagier.

After a few moments of this tense, wordless confrontation, Kämpfer straightened. His dark aura dispersed somewhat. "Very well, then. I suppose this conversation will have to be continued at another date. I do hope you will find some pleasure in our humble accommodations." He gave another serpentine smile. "Have a pleasant day, Lady Sforza."

Without another word of explanation, Kämpfer and his comrades departed from the cell. When the door slid down and closed, it was accompanied by a short sucking sound that informed Caterina that the door was air-tight. She panicked briefly before looking up and seeing a very small, round vent that blew air into the chamber. All the same, she was hit by a small wave of claustrophobia.

She took in a quick breath, then sighed and closed her eyes. A young face with bristled reddish-brown hair and unreadable eyes appeared behind her lids, resolute as always.

Her brows drew together. Her heart pattered a little quicker. _Be careful, both of you. And please hurry._

* * *

The blue-haired Methuselah cleared his throat. "Lord Kämpfer, if I may speak freely?"

Both Kämpfer and Dietrich von Lohengrin, the handsome young man bearing the title Marionettespieler, halted their procession down the corridor and looked at the lower-ranking officer in subdued surprise. When the elder of the men fully turned and faced him, the speaker was half-tempted to take a step back. Terran or not, Isaak Fernand von Kämpfer was a creature even a Methuselah would be unwise to trifle with. Not to mention the upstart but equally deadly protégé who stood right behind him – and acted as Radu Barvon's direct superior.

"If you feel you must, Baron of Luxor," said Kämpfer in an easy tone that did not quite correspond with his stiff expression.

Radu took the hint. He proceeded with caution. "I was only thinking . . . or, rather, wondering whether this is the wisest course for us to take. That is, I understand our using this ship, disguised as an Imperial vessel, to instigate a war between the Empire and the Vatican. But . . . it had been my impression that . . . the Cardinal would be eliminated soon after she came into our power."

He stood a little straighter and took another breath. "Is it really wise to keep her alive? And if we do, how long exactly do we intend to maintain this façade? We have only so many Methuselah crewmen. We risk discovery if we delay . . ."

Radu let any further argument drop off there. Neither of his superiors had moved, although Dietrich's left eyebrow had popped up for a quizzical affectation. Radu's gaze shifted to the Orden's second-in-command and awaited a response.

Kämpfer remained still for a moment – almost lifeless, like a wax mannequin. Then his lips expanded into a smile. The Magician closed his eyes as he chuckled. When they opened again, so did his lips into a toothed grin.

"Oh, Flammeschert, I do appreciate your concern for our well-being. Very conscientious of you. However, you needn't waste your energy in the effort. I assure you we have matters under control. As inconvenient as it is, we must keep the Duchess alive at least for a little longer. She will not give in to interrogation easily, but we require the location of those blueprints before we can properly proceed with our mission. The situation will become very unpleasant should the AX uncover a weakness in our new weapon."

"You should also remember, my dear Baron," purred Dietrich, "that, Lady Sforza and her subordinates aside, the Vatican barely acknowledges our existence, even after Vienna. You yourself seemed peachy keen with our plan to make the Vatican believe the Empire is the real culprit."

"Yes, I know," replied Radu, trying to stay calm, "but I assumed the cardinal would be eliminated once we established the motives of her alleged kidnappers. _That's_ what I don't understand . . ."

"What exactly do you fear, Flammeschwert?" Kämpfer spoke softly, his voice the texture of velvet. "Are you afraid her agents will manage a means of rescuing her?"

Radu scoffed. "Of course not. Our ship would reduce any aircraft of theirs to dust before they could get within range."

"Then what is your concern?"

The young Baron folded his arms and pressed his lips tightly together. They were both perfectly right. He should not have been so paranoid. What could be wrong, then, in keeping the cardinal alive a little longer?

It may have been the whole situation. Maybe he couldn't go through with it as coolly and calmly as the rest. After all, he was framing _his_ nation, _his _people for a crime they didn't commit. It was for the greater good, of course, but still . . . it was like an itch had gotten under Radu's skin since he brought the cardinal onboard. Down below, while parading around with that idiotic cowl, he felt more removed from himself – less involved in this underhanded plot. He had been an actor playing a necessary role. He had been able to tell himself that it would soon be over and pass like . . . like . . . what was that line Kämpfer often quoted? 'Yield like a dream'? Something like that. He had expected it all to pass without negative consequences. He was doing it for the greater good, after all! For the preservation of his race! For that he was willing to consort with these despicable Terrans . . .

"Well, Baron? What still troubles you?" Kämpfer gazed at him, mocking and expectant.

Radu swallowed, his throat drier than a desert, and answered with bowing eyes: "Nothing, my lords. I had only a notion . . . it is nothing."

"I should hope so," said Kämpfer, not sounding at all disturbed. He drew away from Flammeschwert and continued down the hall. Radu waited as Dietrich followed his mentor, but then suddenly stopped when the Magician turned back to them.

"By the way, I don't suppose we had any reports of objects dropping out of the Albionese airship, by chance? Perhaps around the time Flammeschwert located Lady Sforza?"

The Baron looked toward his superior, who appeared puzzled by the question. "Nothing came up on the radar, according to Skorzeny" said Dietrich, his brow furrowed.

"I didn't think they would. They would have likely exited via a lower-level compartment. The ship's size and thermal exhaust would have shielded them from detection by radar and infrared. Well, we can always take another look. It may be we will need to send your playthings to the ground after all."

Radu saw Dietrich's beautiful face light up with devilish glee. The third-highest-ranking officer of the Rosencreutz Orden seemed hardly able to resist skipping after the Magician. The older man paid the boy's behavior little mind. As Radu observed this spectacle somewhat listlessly, Dietrich spun around and gave his pet a little wave. "Aren't you coming, my dear Flammeschwert? I would hate for you to miss all the fun."

He knew he shouldn't have, but the Baron felt quite ill to his stomach.


	6. Chapter 5

Huzzah, another chapter! Whee! Things develop! We have scenery! Suspense deepens! Lots of good stuff! So review, dammit! :)

P.S. I hate translating distances into the metric system. No offense to those who use it. It's just a pain when you're used to thinking in 'miles' rather than 'kilometers'. Although, do the Brits use 'miles' sometimes? They did in Jane Austen's time. That's all I'm sure of. Ugh!

Okay, on with the fic.

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 5

* * *

Father Wordsworth massaged his aching side as he walked. "How did we ever get into this mess?"

There was a pause. "Input: request clarification," responded Father Tres. His eyes did not turn to his companion.

The older priest sighed. "I don't even know. It seems we never stop meeting trouble, especially when we try to avoid it. I suppose it should be an aspect of our vocation we have grown accustomed to, but . . . I'm just tired, I suppose. I meant to take a nap before supper."

"A nap is out of the question under the circumstances," Tres explained.

"I'm aware of that. Oh, and I lost my pipe, too! Blast it!" The weary knight of Albion rubbed his temple with one hand and tightened the other's grip on his cane. It had thankfully survived the landing. Little blessings like that kept Wordsworth on his feet. Literally, in this case. That aside, though, their situation looked bleak.

Without any other idea of what to do, Wordsworth surveyed his surroundings again. They were traversing along a vein between two large, rocky hills, barren except for the smallest sprigs of wild vegetation. A film of short, frosted grass carpeted their path. The ground was granite hard, a fact they learned upon impact, much to Wordsworth's agony. At least now he could walk on it with relative ease and not worry about his foot sinking into a mud hole or mire.

They could see nothing beyond the hills on either side except an overcast sky. Just as it came to Wordsworth's mind that they should ascend one of these peeks to gain a better view of their surroundings, he saw Tres already on the task, swiftly walking up the hill on their right.

Wordsworth limped as quickly as he could after Tres. The bottom tip of his cane thumped against the dense soil, a tempo to time the spikes of pain that shot up his left leg, his side and the back of his shoulder. A sharp, biting gust came up and knocked into his left side. He pulled up the collar of his cassock closer around his face. _So these are the Wildes. Dash all those romantic thoughts I had before – I'd prefer a snug den in Londinium right now!_

"Professor?" called Tres. "Do you require assistance?"

"No, no, I can manage quite well on my own." Wordsworth confessed to himself that Tres' assistance would have been helpful, but his damned native pride refused to let him expose his neediness. Instead he trudged on at his own pace. As he neared the summit, he looked up to see Gunslinger suddenly there, glaring down at him with mahogany eyes.

"Are you positive you do not require assistance?"

"I'm _fine_, Tres. Thank you."

In good time Wordsworth reached the hill's acme and stared out at the view. His eyebrows shot up. He had spoken a little too soon. _These_ were the Wildes.

Their hill was only one in a chain of crags that stretched north-by-northwest, changing from greenish- to bluish-gray as they neared the misty horizon. The ground dipped and rose so suddenly it made one's heart quicken just from looking. The peaks were capped with pristine snow and sported blotches of low shrubs that appeared as patches, ranging from lettuce green to earthy black on the uneven terrain. Some ten or so kilometers off, a wide vale snuggled against the western side of this chain, and in it grew a compact forest of evergreen trees that had adapted to an otherwise forbidding climate.

The wind kept coming in harsh, sporadic gusts, and another one hit the pair ruthlessly. Wordsworth gritted his teeth and drew the cloak even more tightly around him. The priests' cassocks could not seal out the cold very well, and the short capes added covering only to their shoulders. They hadn't thought to dress for temperatures at this latitude in December. Only his primarily mechanical body could explain why Tres did not appear perturbed by the wind or the bone-gnawing cold.

Wordsworth glanced miserably at the land and sky. "Why does it have to be so cold?" he groaned. "Just how far north are we?"

His comrade attempted to answer the first question. "Due to our altitude, which I estimate to be about two-hundred meters above sea level, the concentration of moisture in the air is significantly lower than to which your body is accustomed. That in addition to the wind chill and the current season in this quarter of the western hemisphere—"

"All right, Tres, thank you!" Wordsworth harrumphed and shoved his gloved hands into his armpits. Didn't Tres know a rhetorical question when he heard one? Also, Wordsworth couldn't recall when the battle-cyborg would have inputted such extensive information regarding climate and meteorology. It made sense if Tres required the information to assess combat conditions, but beyond that . . . when had he even found time?

"Do you require another layer of clothing to maintain your optimal body temperature, Father Wordsworth?

The Professor sighed, a cloud escaping his lips. "No, I will be all right. Have you any idea where we are?"

"Negative. I have not gathered sufficient data. I can only conclude that we are still in Albion. Turbulence carried us approximately 53 kilometers west of the airship _Beowulf_."

"Splendid." Wordsworth grumbled and looked around again. He wanted to kick himself for his earlier wish. If he had been prepared for an expedition into such a region, he might have experienced more enthusiasm. His concern for Caterina and his physical discomfort only put him in a bad mood. His mind turned to wondering what they would have to do for shelter, warmth, and other basic needs.

"Please clarify."

Wordsworth looked at his companion distractedly. "Pardon?"

"Please clarify your statement," said Tres.

After a moment of remembering the context of his last declaration, Wordsworth gave him an ill-humored expression. "Don't try to tell me that after all these years you still haven't grasped the concept of sarcasm."

"I understand its definition and role in human communication," Tres answered, "but it has become a very problematic barrier to my ability to fully comprehend a person's true motives or to obtain vital information."

Wordsworth could not help smirking. "Well, it takes some longer to catch on, I suppose. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it someday."

"I estimate that when that day occurs, there will be no humans left to confirm my understanding of the concept."

The Professor answered with a smile. His mind drifted off again as he started rubbing his hands. _He may not understand sarcasm, but he seems to have developed a sense of humor. A self-developed sub-routine in his programming, perhaps? Hmm. Something to investigate when – or _if_ – we rediscover civilization._

When he came out of his thoughts again, Wordsworth saw Tres descending from their perch and proceeding on a diagonal. The human priest hesitated to follow his mechanical companion. He studied Tres' trajectory and understood that the cyborg intended to go northwest toward the forest in the vale. This puzzled Wordsworth. By all accounts, logic and an understanding of Albion's geography dictated that southward was the way to go to find human settlements. Why would anyone who could provide them with assistance be this far north?

"Tres?" called Wordsworth over the wind. "Are you certain we should go that way? It would be more productive to head south. The ground is more even in that direction, and we would have a better chance of finding someone or them finding us. Yes, yes, I know you prefer to be suspicious of strangers, but I doubt anyone around here could know who we are. Uh, aside from the robes. We would very likely appear to be just two poor, unimportant priests who could use a little aid in exchange for an absolution of sins. Really, Tres, is this route our best option?"

The cyborg did not answer. Instead he surveyed the area with keen eyes. Was he trying to record the site with a camera inside that wired head of his? Or was he trying to contrive some way to ascertain their exact location? Another minute passed before Wordsworth felt obliged to repeat the question. This time, Tres answered without turning around.

"Yes. This is the way we need to go. It is necessary for the mission."

Wordsworth was knocked back. "_Mission_? What mission? We're not on a mission, are we? We've been stranded. Marooned."

"I have a confidential mission to carry out for my superior. It is, in her own words, of dire importance."

The wheels in Wordsworth's head turned frantically. Was this the reason Caterina used to convince Tres to leave her side? "Why did you not tell me of this _mission_ before?"

"It is _confidential_ – it must be known only to myself and the Duchess." Tres was ready to resume his determined march, but Wordsworth caught up and halted him with a hand on his right shoulder.

"Now see here! She's my superior, too! Don't I have a right to know about it? After all, I'm stuck here with you, on _her _orders, and we need to help each other through this. You needn't disclose the entire thing to me if it must be so. Just a vague overview that will make me somewhat informed."

Tres turned to face the Professor. His serious, deadpan gaze inexplicably startled the older priest. Wordsworth swallowed. "Just one tiny hint?"

"Negative. I am under the strictest orders not to reveal any information regarding the mission to anyone unless she has directly authorized me."

Well, this was certainly an unexpected and unsatisfactory development. Did their mistress not trust the Professor anymore? Wordsworth gave Tres credit for being so incorruptible in his services to her, but had Gunslinger become part of something so critical that _no_ human could be trusted with the information he was carrying? It still seemed a stretch to believe that she would not at least put a little more faith in _his _competence. He did not worry if the mission was dangerous to know; as chances stood, they were already in danger. There was no telling if the Orden had noticed their escape, and they knew even less of the sort of creatures that lurked among these hills.

Wordsworth, at length, tired of this internal debate and prepared to argue with Tres again, only to see the cyborg three meters closer to the vale. Wordsworth watched him warily. The notion of getting lost in a labyrinth of branches and undergrowth, especially in the darkness when night came, left him queasy. He observed Tres for another minute, then called out to him.

"All right, fine! You go your own way, then, but don't count on me to go along with it! You would probably be better off without me slowing you down! That's right, go into the dark, dangerous forest and see how you like it! I'm going this way, along the hills to the south. And don't bother trying to follow me later and beg for help, for you won't get any!"

Wordsworth turned heel and made for the direction he declared. He was pretty sure he was heading in the desired direction. _Let's see, the sun is starting to go down . . . that way? Ugh, it's hard to tell with these clouds. Well, it's brighter over there, so south should be . . . ah, yes, there we go._

He jumped a little when the daunting voice of his peer came up from below. "Father Wordsworth, I strongly suggest that you stay with me. Your chances of surviving this wilderness with my aid are far higher than . . ."

"I don't care about your percentages and statistics right now, Gunslinger," shouted Wordsworth as he surmounted the acme and began to descend the other side of the hill. "Have your own adventures. I've had quite enough to last me a decade, and probably more! Don't try to change my mind: nothing could compel me to go into that forest!"

* * *

It would only make sense that as nighttime descends, the temperature drops. It would also make sense that if a creature with a limited tolerance for cold were forced to endure the lower temperatures of night, it would be beneficial, if not crucial, to discover some heat source. The most well-established form of heat comes from a blazing fire, which can only be made with the proper materials. Timber was a primary one.

All these facts jeered at Wordsworth as he let them run around in his mind like smart-mouthed children. His body shook even more than before, and the sun had not even completely set. The clouds from earlier had partially dissipated, and the horizon to his right burned a fiery blend of pink and orange. A grayish shade of violet fell over the rest of the sky like a wool blanket. Neither the stars nor the moon could be seen.

Wordsworth clutched the cross at his collar and prayed that the clouds would yield the light from a full moon. And that, at that the same time, no wild beasts would find him. He would have preferred to see the ground he was walking on, even if that entailed running from whatever animals inhabited this forsaken corner of the world.

"Dammit, Tres! Why did you have to be so stubborn? You _tricked_ me into going this way, didn't you? Well, I'm sure you're not doing any better."

He could not realistically assess just how 'well' Tres was doing. The capacity to feel discomfort did not seem an attribute present in cyborgs, since they mostly functioned on absolute survival needs.

"But I have survival needs of my own to attend to. I can't possibly go on like this before collapsing from exhaustion or cold, or being eaten."

The landscape around him had not yet changed. It could be days before he reached a suitable settlement. What was the state of public transportation in the Wildes? Probably nonexistent. So there was no hope of finding a train track or a public road. None entered his vision each time he examined his surroundings. Just crags, valleys, crags, small forests, the occasional stream, and more crags! Not a bloody hamlet or abode in sight.

Why did Tres go in the direction he did, anyway? Had he detected a human presence in that direction? If so, why hadn't he said so? Wordsworth grunted. Tres must have picked up a heat signature. That blasted cyborg! He should have said something!

The priest looked behind him. He couldn't see the forest anymore. He had been walking for at least an hour. Well, it felt like an hour. It would take him at least that much time to retrace his steps, and then additional time to find Tres in the woods. Who could calculate how much distance the cyborg, with his superior body, would cover by that point?

Wordsworth could have come up with an approximate figure if he wished to, but his mind and body were worn down by the labor of trekking in an unforgiving environment. His fingers started to lose feeling in the tips, even after he shoved them into his armpits.

"I've got to do _something_! If I could construct some sort of shelter—"

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when a divine sound reached his ears. He could swear he had heard the brassy, sonorous moo of a cow.

The priest jerked his head up. The sound came just beyond the hill in front of him. "What? C-could there really be . . .?"

He had a mind to throw himself onto the ground and crawl a just little ways toward the sound. When he silenced his mind and breath, he could hear not only the grunts and huffs of a herd of cattle, but their hooffalls and the footfalls of their owners.

In a matter of minutes, a group of travelers came into his sights about twenty meters away. The curious child buried deep within the thirty-seven-year-old professor with doctorates in philosophy and engineering thrilled at their nomadic attire, but the adult shuddered at their brutish appearance. Could they be trusted? Were they simple herders, or vicious cattle thieves? The group consisted largely of men with a few women towards the back carrying large woven baskets of what could have been trading goods or food gathered from the local terrain. All but one of the men, who looked middle-aged and walked at the head of the group, kept their hair short. The leader wore his long. The women had long hair as well, but they adorned their heads with grass and flowers. The leader, in contrast, had small sections of his hair braided, but left otherwise unembellished. The bodies of both sexes were adorned in animal hide. If they carried weapons, they kept them concealed.

Wordsworth considered what to do next while he watched the group slowly pass by. They were weaving through a break between the hills in the direction from which the priest had hiked. That was certainly a factor to consider if he wished to find Tres. Maybe these people could guess where Tres would mostly likely go once he entered the forest.

He could not ignore the potential risks, though. He had no reason to believe these people to be trustworthy. They seemed civilized enough to know how to conduct trade, but what did that promise? A number of possible outcomes ran through his mind were he to make his presence known to these people. If they were ruffians, they might kill him on the spot or make him their slave. If they were cannibals, they might eat him. He doubted they were favorable toward the Church – might they beat or kill him simply because of the cassock and cross he wore?

After all this contemplation, one truth dawned upon him: _I know what the outcome will be if I do not contact them: spending the night in the freezing outdoors. I don't even know if I would live to see morning_.

Wordsworth took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. _I wish I had my pipe. It helps me think more clearly_.

The priest grasped his cane with renewed vigor and stood. He put on as friendly a smile as he could manage and waved his arms. "Hello, down there! Could you please help me?"

Every single member of the group looked at him. The cattle mooed at the disturbance.

"Hello, there! I am in need of your assistance! I have lost my way and—"

Before he could speak further, all the men in the group minus the leader rushed upon him with incredible speed.

Wordsworth gasped at the sight. _What? How could they—_

In a second they were upon him. The men looked young, tough and grim with their frowning countenances. Each man's forehead bore a strange tattoo whose meaning Wordsworth could not divine. Not one man shared the same tattoo.

He put up his hands before him, forcing his smile to stay on. "Please. I don't mean any harm. Yes, I am a priest. A poor, wandering priest with no means of shelter. I'm only wondering if you could direct me to the nearest settlement where I might find food and warmth."

The troop of youths remained silent for a moment. They looked at one another with the same grave expression. No hint of what they would do could be discerned from their faces. When Wordsworth felt he would go mad from the suspense, the oldest looking man in the group spoke. A small beard covered his cleft chin, and his hair was growing back from having been shorn close to the scalp.

"Tie him up. Ankles and wrists."

The other men pulled out long, thick cords hidden somewhere on them. Before he could speak again, Wordsworth hit the ground. His cane was extracted from him, and he was flipped onto his stomach.

"Resist, Terran," grunted the same speaker, "and ye will die."

Wordsworth tried to not gasp again. Dread filled his gut. _Terran? Oh, Lord in Heaven, it can't be! _

His hands and ankles were bound in seconds, and he was hoisted up by two youths who gripped his shoulders far too tightly.

"Easy, now!" he cried. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Do not speak unless spoken to," growled the alleged head of the group, now showing off his fangs. Wordsworth noticed an odd lilt in the young man's speech. "We will gag ye if we must."

The priest had little choice. He nodded and said nothing more.


	7. Chapter 6

Well . . . it's certainly been a while since I touched this. Sorry this chapter is so short - more to come soon (I hope).

* * *

Chapter 6

Tres switched to "thermal detection" mode again when he reached the edge of the forest. He took note of the small yellow balls moving in and out of his view. The cyborg estimated that the moving bodies were approximately 500 meters ahead of him.

He had yet to comprehend why Father Wordsworth had been unwilling to accompany him. He understood that the Professor did not have the capability to detect thermal signatures, but in his mind that only should have certified Gunslinger as the more capable agent for pinpointing the optimal trajectory for locating assistance. Why, then, had Wordsworth objected? Tres could provide sufficient protection against any threat. The Professor's reaction had been unwarranted – that was the only conclusion the cyborg could reach.

A red-and-yellow light flickering inside a bush caused an abrupt stop in this chain of thoughts. Tres hefted his pistol and looked around, his expression still blank. The thermal sensors revealed a small creature bounding through the vegetation away from him.

"A rabbit," Tres quietly announced, as if anyone else nearby needed to be informed. His lowered his weapon only slightly while continuing deeper into the forest. He would need to resort to night vision too before long. The branches of the monstrous evergreens that surrounded him obscured the sky almost completely; the loss of sunlight altogether would plunge the woods into total darkness.

Tres' emotion-inhibiting filter proved a helpful tool in such scenario. Other agents would have experienced fear or anxiety at the idea of navigating an unknown wilderness in the dark. For a moment, he reviewed this memory bite without decreasing his focus on the scene around him. He remembered how, on a mission a few months ago, the perspiration began to accumulate on Father Leon Garcia's face as they moved deeper in an underground tunnel. "I'm not _afraid_, Gunslinger – just on edge. Antsy." Considering the physical symptoms of Dandelion's emotions, Tres concluded that anxiety was simply another manifestation of fear. It wasn't his intention to be critical of his colleague. He'd wanted to assist Father Leon in keeping a check on his emotions. The importance of their missions was too great to allow them to interfere, especially if a mission directly pertained to the Duchess' well-being.

With that thought in mind, Tres returned his full attention to his environment. The balls of yellow light were beginning to grow red in the center. He was getting closer.

It seemed logical that the person the Duchess had wanted him to find would linger near a population of other locals, even if he didn't live among them. Tres would need to interrogate the group of people up ahead – if they were in fact capable of speech. Then another thought occurred to him. It may be that these people could speak, but the language they spoke may become another issue entirely. Tres had translation software installed into his communication program, but it was limited to languages he had downloaded or learned by ear. He was relatively quick at picking up new languages, but there would be no time to learn the language of these people if he didn't know it already. His mission was too urgent.

He realized that allowing Father Wordsworth to go his own way had been a mistake. Wordsworth had a better chance of being acquainted with the general linguistics of the inhabitants. He was, after all, a native of Albion. The Professor was also trained to dissect unfamiliar languages by ear and establish similarities with languages he did know. Tres considered what to do next. Finding Wordsworth would take time, but finding a way to communicate with the natives would take longer. He paused mid-step and considered his options.

It would not be too difficult to find the other priest. The cyborg could pick up heat signatures up to 700 meters. He quickly calculated how far Wordsworth could have gone within the last hour. If he had been walking about 10 meters a minute –

Another rustle. Tres lifted the pistol and snapped around to its source. Something was crouching in the bushes a few steps ahead. It was bigger than a rabbit. It sat very still, but its body pulsated with an unusual amount of heat and energy, as if the creature's metabolism was in overdrive. Adrenaline. The hormone was rushing through the creature's body. So it was either a hunted beast hiding from its pursuer, or a hungry carnivore about to pounce on its prey.

Tres fired a few inches above the bush, hitting and splitting some bark on a tree a few meters further away. In the next instant, the creature leapt out of the shrub and away from the cyborg. It was no mere animal. It had a human shape but was covered in animal hide, giving the impression of a large, wild beast.

Before Tres could take another shot, he felt a sharp stab in his lower back. 0.08 seconds after he noted this sensation, a high-voltage shock went through his body. It lasted about a second. Every system automatically shut down. Before Tres went offline, he saw the figure he had flushed out turn around and stare at him. Its copper eyes glowed in the darkness, and its lips were pulled back in a snarl.

Even the gunmetal hound couldn't be sure if he saw a pair of fangs in that grimace.

* * *

"I really don't see the necessity of all of this," said Wordsworth, gesturing with his bound wrists.

"We told ye to be silent, priest!" growled one of the young men from before.

"How can I render harm to any of _you_? Just one of you could snap my neck in a second – I fully acknowledge that."

Wordsworth was being led like a slave or prisoner by the leader of vampiric youths who had attacked him. His position placed him nearly at the head of the procession with only the tribe's chief leading the way. Wordsworth felt a bit surprised when the chief barely looked at him and didn't even deign to speak. It was as if he were some wild animal the vampires had found wandering the terrain, captured and brought along for the sake of slaying and eating later without a twinge from their conscience. In this country, he was beneath them. They made him feel less than human.

"Ye may not have the strength to severely injure us," remarked the youth leader, who bore a striking resemblance to the chief. "Ye were, however, carryin' a weapon."

"My cane?" Wordsworth swallowed but remained diplomatic. "Honestly, how could a little, feeble stick cause you harm?"

"Not the stick i'self, but the blade inside," clarified the young man.

Wordsworth swallowed again. For primitive tribesmen, these people were quick. Maybe they had similar weapons in these parts. He had no way of knowing. He let a moment of silence pass before addressing them again. "Am I at the very least permitted to know what you will do to me?" He flexed his sore toes, wishing he could walk with the cane.

"It is we who should be askin' questions," said the leader again. His copper eyes were like hot pokers, lightly burning him with every glance and word. "We do not take kindly to Catholic agents trespassin' in our territory. This is a _free_ land."

"I understand your anxieties about the Vatican's presence," proceeded Wordsworth, "but I am also a native of Albion. Don't you see? We share a common language, a common homeland—"

"We are not in Albion." The rest of the tribe fell silent as the chief spoke and looked behind him. His steely eyes fastened on the astonished priest. "We belong to neither Albion nor Erin. This is Pictavia, and it is _our_ land."

Wordsworth's brow knotted in puzzlement. "I'm afraid I have never heard the term. Where I come from, this land is still considered part of Albion."

"Of course. That is how the Southerners think."

So, these people _did_ have a term for inhabitants who lived in or near Londinium. If Wordsworth's memory of history on Armageddon was correct, much of the southern half of Albion had suffered the worst from enemy attack. In the meantime, the northern areas had been the site of many scientific communities who avoided the destruction of war. He knew very little about the results of those settlements, except that things had gone very badly and people in the south were too afraid to venture northward to reestablish civilization. The terrain was not conducive to mass-produced agriculture, anyway, and minerals it might have once possessed had been drained. For the most part, then, the land had been left alone. Only the brave or deranged made a living in the Wildes – or, rather, Pictavia. That had been Wordsworth's impression. It wouldn't be the first time the history books got things wrong.

The Professor's curiosity was whetted again, despite captivity. Perhaps if he showed an interest in their culture and history, the vampire tribesmen would warm up to him. "Do you know where your people come from, sir?" he asked the chief.

"Our history is a painful one, filled with loneliness and sufferin'." The chief did not look at the priest as he spoke. Wordsworth was just grateful for receiving an answer this time. "Our ancestors came from Albion, or so we have been told. Many ran away from slavery; others were exiled."

Wordsworth sucked on his teeth. "Slavery? Your people were once enslaved in Albion?"

"Not once. Are still. I am certain that even to this day, our people wear the chains of their predecessors who risked helpin' the Terrans to rebuild their cities, only to become their eternal hounds of labor."

"Do you mean since Armageddon? My good sir, I think the people of Albion would have found out by now that there are vampires enslaved in Albion if it were in fact true. Certainly after nine-hundred years . . ."

"Then yer country has perfected its methods of lyin'." The chief's tone sent a clear message to Wordsworth: this conversation was finished.

The Professor consented to this declaration, but there were still questions buzzing in his mind. He let a breath of silence pass until they crossed through another pair of crags. When they did, the sight before them took away Wordsworth's breath. The vale with the sprawling forest lay before them.

He had to think of something before he betrayed himself. Risking a harsh reprimand or outright dismissal (or death), Wordsworth addressed the chief again: "May I ask who my captors are? As a gentleman and overseer of decorum, you certainly will not deny me _that_ much."

The chief glared at him again, but at length he replied as they steadily drew closer to the forest. "I am William MacLeod, the Duke of Clyde." There was pause. "And yers?"

The priest smiled. "Dr. William Walter Wordsworth, wandering priest from the Vatican and knight of Albion."

"Ah. So I have _three_ reasons to consider ye my enemy."

"It is my policy to always be forthright with a fellow countryman."

Wordsworth's response earned him glares from several of the young men, but Lord MacLeod paid his remark little mind. The priest released the slowest, softest sigh in his life.


	8. Chapter 7

This should not have taken so long to write, but it did. It felt long for some reason. Oh, well. Please read and review, and enjoy!

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 7

* * *

When Tres' systems rebooted, he woke to find himself wrapped in chains and his gun missing. He lay on a cart filled with bits of machinery, most of which were in less than prime condition. Tres found nothing very surprising about this; as a machine, it made sense to be deposited among other machines, despite the fact that he was more advanced and less damaged.

The cart stood stationary. Its wooden walls would not have been a major obstacle for Tres to either climb over or kick away were his limbs free, but they did obscure his view of his surroundings. Treetops were all his eyes could detect outside the vehicle. That and the fact that nighttime had descended. He couldn't even tell whether the sky was still overcast. The homogeny of the trees made it impossible to tell how far his captors had taken him from the spot where he lost consciousness.

Thinking of no other logical course of action, Tres rolled back and forth. The chains held him very tightly, but he continued the action and wriggled his body at the same time to loosen his bonds. Before the chains felt any less taunt, a pair of heads peered over one side of the cart. Both were female, and their long hair shadowed their faces. Nothing but their eyes was visible in the dark. Tres stopped rolling and looked up at them. He switched on his night vision. It didn't do much except make their eyes shine brighter.

"Leith!" cried one of the females in a shrill squeak. "This one's kickin'!"

Another face shortly appeared, this time male and bald. His chin sported a healthy blond beard with a few beads adorning the tip. "Well, now! A resilient one we got 'ere! No ordinary machine be this un, ah can tell ye. He's got flesh as well as metal in 'im. Will fetch a fine price, no doubtin' it."

Tres identified the language as a dialect of the language of Albion. He utilized what was established as the standard form of the language simply because he was more familiar with it. "Identify yourself."

The man, dressed in animal skins like the creature from before and the two women beside him, hooted. The women giggled as well. Their response was not satisfactory. Tres repeated the question.

"Let's not be too hard on 'im," said the second woman. She had the darkest hair of the lot, and her braids were embellished with small buds of purple thistles. "Methinks it's in his programmin'. Ah be Nonie. This here's Una and Leith."

"Don't encourage 'im," scolded the red-haired female identified as Una. "We'll 'ave to sell him off, ye ken."

"Course ah ken! But if 'e's curious aboot where he's at, thar can be no harm in havin' a chat."

"Hush up, ye dobbers!" Leith hissed at them. "Ye better bugger off 'fore William returns. Don't want to get kicked in the erse fae makin' trouble with the merchandise, do ye?"

Both women departed, but Nonie blew the man a raspberry before following after her friend. As soon as the women were gone, Leith's square, rugged face darkened with seriousness. His luminous eyes narrowed on Tres. "Judgin' by ye claes, ah say you be a priest. That so?"

"Affirmative." Tres saw no reason to conceal this fact. He had only one matter to keep undisclosed.

"We dun care fae priests here," Leith quietly growled. "Do ye know where ye be?"

Tres hesitated. He decided to go with his broadest knowledge of his location. "Albion."

An unpleasant chuckle emanated from Leith's lips. The cyborg could now see the tips of his fangs. "Not quite. This is Pictavia, and ye would benefit from remembrin' that fact."

While he wouldn't say he had a complete and detailed map of the world committed to memory, Tres was relatively confident in geography. "I have no record of such a place in my database."

"That's cause yer database be written by the likes of Southerners and Vatican bureaucrats."

"I collect data from many sources. You are the first source to identify the entity called Pictavia."

"Let's hope ah'm not the last." Melancholy colored the towering vampire's voice. "An' what be yer business in our land?"

Tres remained as staunch as always when it came to that question. "Confidential."

"Uh-huh." Leith smirked. If Tres' emotion inhibitors had not been on, he might have felt a cold chill running through his body at the sight of that smirk. "Sorry t' tell ya this, lad, but yer 'confidential' business ain't relevant no more. Ye might as well spill yer guts."

"Negative. As long as I am functioning, it is my priority to complete my mission. Current immobility is a temporary obstacle."

Leith's large mouth opened in a roaring laugh. "Ye be somethin' else, lad! Never seen such devotion in a machine a'fore. Yer new owners will appreciate that."

The last sentence did send a surge of some kind through Tres' systems. New owners? The words didn't even fully register. The necessity to escape was upgraded to a higher urgency level. He wiggled to find any weak points in his chains. Leith merely chuckled at his antics. "That got ye all jittery, nae?"

The question didn't require a response, Tres decided. If he hadn't felt so desperate to extricate himself from his bounds, he might have been impressed at how thorough the vampires were at tying him up. All the same, he squirmed in spite of Leith's amusement. The creature's chuckles only pushed him to get free and away. Somewhere deep in the remnants of his human mind, he imagined many ways by which he could injure and neutralize his captor even without his weapon.

Leith seemed to find Tres' efforts entertaining. He would have stayed by the cart had something behind him not suddenly seized his attention. Tres stopped struggling again to observe him. The vampire's eyes smiled along with his large mouth. "At last!" he muttered before leaving the cyborg to his own devices. Tres listened for sounds of a new presence. All he heard was the clink of metal objects – cookware, maybe, or more machines – and the mooing of some cows. He did detect the voices, too, exchanging elated greetings. They talked about things Tres couldn't hear properly at this distance and in this position. He soon lost interest and resumed working on his bonds.

Several more minutes passed, and to Tres' mild satisfaction the chains started to give more under strain. He could feel them loosen around his ankles and wrists. His hands worked ruthlessly to pry open the chains some more. _Increasing energy output to 115.8%_, he thought, resisting his usual urge to announce aloud these alterations in his system's performance level. Warning alarms rang inside his head at the stress he was placing on himself. There was no point in acknowledging them. Hardware could be repaired later. He was so close to getting free.

Just when Tres thought he could extract one of his hands, Leith and a male vampire with long hair came back to the cart. Leith held a cattle prod. Its sharp head dug into Tres' shoulder without warning and sent hundreds of volts into his already damaged body. The cyborg didn't fully shut down this time, but his visual and auditory sensors were momentarily impaired. With an urgency that in a human might have elevated to panic, Tres repeatedly sent commands through his software to reboot. His limbs, also temporarily rendered non-functional by the cattle prod, were back online. That fact did nothing to help Tres. Strong hands grabbed him and refastened the chains he'd only just loosened. The hands couldn't have only been Leith's and the second vampire's: two pairs held him by the arms, and two more grabbed his legs. They carried him as if he were an injured comrade. Tres understood that his bound legs made it impossible for him to walk, hence why he was being transported in such a fashion. Why they were moving him was the more pressing question.

Four and three-quarter minutes passed before Tres' eyes and ears returned to operating mode. What he first saw and heard, aside from the clan of fur-clad vampires surrounding him, did not warm the cockles of his heart. But it did fill him with a quiet, easily ignored wave of relief.

"Professor. You see now that I was correct."

Wordsworth, similarly tied up, but with rope instead of chains, stood across from Tres and, briefly oblivious of their captors, guffawed at Tres' opening line. "My boy, your priorities never fail to baffle me. Yes, all right, you were correct. Happy now?"

"Negative. I do not feel any emotion regarding this fact. I thought only that you should note it for future reference."

"It's duly noted." Now Wordsworth glanced around at their audience with a tense but still respectful expression. "And I'm sure you've noted the obvious, milord."

The long-haired vampire stepped out of the crowd and stood close to Wordsworth. "I 'ave. And I've concluded that ye be not on a mission o' charity. Yer comrade be equipped fae more dangerous business."

"You may be assured that we had no foreknowledge of your people." Wordsworth had full reign of his powers of diplomacy now that the shock of meeting the Pictavians and being captured had dulled somewhat. "You are right that we are not here to give alms or sermons, but our mission _is_ a peaceful one. You have no reason to detain us."

"This land," chirped Leith from the throng, "belongs t' the Methuselah. We do what we lahke."

The Duke of Clyde shot him a quick warning glare. "Blunt as he be," he said to Wordsworth, "my brother is right. Ye 'ave no authority here. We will treat ye as we treat any human who wanders into our country." Again, William turned his attention to his clansmen. Every one of them stood present to witness the fate of the Terran captives. A few of the women, particularly Nonie, watched the priests—or rather Tres—with gentle eyes and anxiously parted lips.

"An' by that," the duke declared, "I mean that we will treat 'em better than their kind 'ave treated us in the past. As long as they be in our possession, nae abuse of an' kind shall befall them. Understood?"

Heads nodded and mumbled words of agreement echoed around the ring of spectators. Wordsworth wondered if he should find this assuring or unsettling. Yes, the duke's message would supposedly protect them from being whipped or beaten senseless, or be smeared by verbal bullying. It was the word 'possession' that unsettled the Professor. The duke and his people were now apparently in control of their lives, and would regard them with the same care that a merchant would have for his wares so long as neither he nor Tres were recalcitrant.

"We are grateful for your generosity, milord," he said when everyone quieted down. "However, as much as we are loathed to disrespect the traditions of our hosts, we must be allowed to leave your company to continue our mission. Lives are at stake."

William took a few long strides toward Wordsworth again. He towered over the priest, which would have been discomforting enough without the pungent scents of deer hide that cover his body and oil that surely saturated his uncombed hair. His breath was nothing to brag about, either. "An' what is this mission?" His voice, though still civil, threatened to release a growl if he did not like the answer.

"Confidential," said Tres.

Wordsworth's stomach dropped to his feet. Not this again. He watched the duke consider the cyborg's response. "A secret mission fae the Vatican?" he posed.

"Yes, and a matter of great urgency." Wordsworth had no clear idea how to appeal to the vampire's merciful side, but perhaps expressing his loyalty to his own superior might hit home in some way. "My leader's life is in danger. She was captured by a powerful enemy, and it is our duty to do what we can to save her. Please, milord—we ask only that you let us go. Nothing more."

The duke's thick eyebrows drew together, and his copper eyes searched Wordsworth's face with sharp, calculating intelligence. They were not dealing with fools—that was for certain. Wordsworth considered saying more until William turned away and gestured for Leith, a few other vampire elders and one of the young men to come with him. As soon as the group was out of earshot, Wordsworth sidled up to Tres. There were still eyes watching them, and their ears were inhumanly keen. Wordsworth kept his voice low as he asked, "Mind telling me _now_ what the mission is?"

"Negative."

"_Tres_."

"This scenario exemplifies why I alone should carry the details of the mission. They are more secure with me."

"It's not as if they're torturing us!"

The Pictavians didn't appear all that interested in their task, except perhaps in feeling some empathy for their concern for Caterina's safety. Wordsworth hoped they did, that is. His gaze drifted to the duke and his counselors conversing outside the ring of clansmen. His body still suffered pangs from his fall out of the sky, and his intuition about the outcome of the discussion in-progress did not soothe his pain. But even vampires, in their own way, had human feeling. His experience with Methuselah was no doubt limited, but they could form societies and relationships like humans. Now and then Wordsworth's attention floated among the unknown clan members who either kept their luminous eyes on them or quietly talked among themselves. He again noticed Nonie, dark-haired and bright-eyed, staring at Tres and giving him a kind, if somewhat coquettish smile. Wordsworth held her face in his mind when he once more focused to William MacLeod and his brethren. The council reentered the circle while the duke walked back to the priests, shoulders squared and expression grave. "Ye may be tellin' the truth about yer leader and plight, but it changes nuthin'. We 'ave a trade and a bearin' to maintain. If the Terrans livin' on the border found out that we're gettin' soft, they'd come chargin' at us like mad dogs and ravage the land withoot mercy. 'Tis a sad story ye've told, an' I hope yer fortune may improve, but our land and clan come first."

The elegantly-phrased rejection came as no surprise to Wordsworth, but it did increase the painful weight of their dilemma. "My lord," he tried to interject, "it's to your credit that you feel such a concern for your people and home, but . . ."

"Enough!" Leith bellowed. "His lairdship has 'eard yer piece an' made his decision. Lads, put 'em in the cart."

The MacLeod clan left the forest—one of their havens to shelter them during the daytime—and travelled through the night to what Wordsworth gradually learned was the nearest Terran trading post. The clan traded with other Methuselah as well, but their resources were limited to what they could find in the wilderness, and what treasures they were fortuitous enough to uncover in the ruins of pre-Armageddon science facilities. The Terrans living on the border, or the "frontier" as they called it, provided the MacLeods with what little technology they employed in their daily lives. Terrans were also the only ones interested in human labor.

"I doubt anyone will buy ye for somethin' very strenuous," Nonie cooed to the bound priests, who were now defrocked of their robes and draped in deerskin ponchos. They rode in the back of a large cart like what Tres awoke in, only the other goods the Methuselah wanted to sell or barter were tied and covered with canvas. The cart rolled at a slow enough speed that Nonie could walk and talk with them. "It be farm work, mostly. Lots o' ranches up 'ere. But you, me bonnie metal lad, would be good fae fixin' machinery."

"Well, actually," interrupted Wordsworth, chuckling at the irony, "I am the one who is qualified to repair machines. Tres would be more helpful with heavy loads and quick calculations."

"Although you possess an extensive database on technology," said Tres, "your construction and repair capabilities malfunction 87.2% of the time."

Wordsworth grunted. "No, no, Tres. You are thinking of my inventions. Yes, they aren't perfect in the early stages, but that is partly the point. I conceive the designs, and then test them to find flaws so that I may know how to improve them to the point of optimal function."

"I understand." Tres' monotone did not waver. "However, what fails to make sense is the frequency with which you test your devices in high-risk scenarios."

"O-oh. W-well, I . . . I hardly have any spare time to test my creations, so I must take opportunities while at work and . . . but I don't do it _that _often! And they don't fail _all _the time! In fact, I am sure I have saved our comrades' lives plenty of times with my handiwork! So you see, Tres, my inventions work when it counts. That is something pure statistics will not tell you."

The thread of logic Wordsworth tried to lay out to his listeners had enough knots and kinks in it to keep Tres quiet for a while. His bafflement and annoyance at having to untangle his companion's argument manifested in a single extra crease in his forehead. He didn't know why, but Wordsworth felt a surge of satisfaction at the appearance of that crinkle.

Tres' confoundment was matched by Nonie's amusement. Her pale face flushed as she laughed. "Ye an' yer mates sound like a mad lot! Ah'm almost sorry we don't see more o' ye."

"We're really not that bad." Twinkling eyes and a smile bejeweled the Professor's amiable face. "I myself am a professor, as well as a scientist and inventor. I enjoy travel, though sometimes I get weary from flying. I also enjoy smoking and peacefully strolling through the city." Nonie's blank expression at the last sentence and the awkward silence accompanying it made Wordsworth burble for a moment. "Forgive me—that was thoughtless. Open fields and shady forests are fine things, too. But . . . maybe I ask, Miss Nonie, if you have ever heard of or seen a city?"

"Oh, ah've certainly 'eard of them." The woman's easy manner wiped the slate clean of the Professor's blunder. She continued with some heightened enthusiasm. "The elders and traders of our clan hear tales fae farmers or travelers who been to the South or other countries. Be they truly bonnie places, sir?"

"The bonniest, in my opinion." Speaking of cities caused Wordsworth to again hanker for some tobacco and his pipe. "There are streets that allow people to walk or drive or interact with others. In the heart of cities, shops of all varieties line the streets, and they display colorful signs to draw in customers. Regardless of the time of day or night, there is always something going on, and human energy never fully dies down."

Wordsworth stopped to observe Nonie's eyes mist over with visions of such glamour and vivacity. "Wish ah could see one o' those someday. Just one. That'd suit me fahne."

"What mince ye lot be talkin'?" Reddish-brown hair whipped poor Nonie in the back of the head as Una fell in beside her and tossed her lovely locks. The braids must have stung like whips against Nonie's head, thought Wordsworth. What he really meant to muse on was how to convince Nonie to help him and Tres escape. It was nearly dawn, though, and his mind and body hungered for sleep. A disadvantage, surely, since his captors operated at optimum capacity in the night hours.

"No mince, Una," said Nonie in earnest. "Just wondrin' what it be lahke t' see a real city: paved streets, tall buildin's made o' white stone, pretty shops wi' jewels and fancy frocks an'—"

"Aw, shut yer geggy, Nonie!" Una tossed her hair and grunted. Nonie managed to dodge the flailing braids this time. "Cities be boggin. E'en we could live in 'em, the Terrans would ruin it all. We'd nae get a day's peace."

As much as he wanted to object to the idea—certainly to her claim that cities were "boggin"—Wordsworth understood her point. The only country in the world that had achieved any notable level of equal coexistence between humans and vampires was Germanicus, and he wasn't sure to what extent anyone should imitate a country so ravenous for conquest. Well, perhaps the likes of Cardinal Francesco di Medici would gladly emulate the latter ideal were the opportunity given to him.

Nonie merely shrugged at Una's argument. "Ah ken ah will nae see a city—pro'bly—but ah can dream aboot . . . ooh, look! Thar's the Sherdale ranch!"

Both prisoners wiggled and shuffled around until they could turn their heads to see what Nonie saw. They were coming down a low hill, less rocky and uneven than the crags they'd traversed earlier that night. It provided them a view of a sloping pasture. Off to the right the ground elevated again to an even lower hill that could barely be called so. On its flat peak sat a homestead, complete with house, barn and corrals for cows and horses. It helped that the sky had lightened and the sun was starting its ascent off to the left. It took Wordsworth's tired brain a few moments to realize that dawn's arrival should be regarded with concern. When the mental gears started clicking together, he let out a startled gasp. "Miss Nonie! It's dawn! The sun—!"

"Nae worries, Mr. Professor," said Nonie. "Thar's a long stretch o' woods on the other side of the Sherdales' land. We set up camp thar when we come this way." She turned to Una, and at the same time her face brightened with an intensity that Wordsworth could not understand. "'ow long's it been? Three years? Feels lahke ages!"

"An' ah bet ya he still 'asn't changed," remarked Una in a less innocent tone of excitement.

Wordsworth eagerly awaited an explanation, but the women dissolved into girlish giggles and would not say more. The priest's weary frame almost returned to its usual vigor at the appearance of this mystery. He sat up and turned about to observe everyone and everything his eyes could reach. The approach to the farm felt sluggish, and no one else exhibited any similar enthusiasm about coming here. Well, he did note a few other women and girls whispering among themselves and looking around, as if they expected someone or something to come into their sights any minute. Wordsworth shook off his lethargy as best he could and kept attentive vigil.

As the sun rose higher, hoods made of animal skins were lifted and pulled down over the faces of the Pictavians. A shame, Wordsworth mused, that silver nitrate pills were not at their disposal. To live in the wilderness with only the woods and other limited natural shelters to give them protection from deadly sunlight must have made life a daily struggle. If they suffered, though, it was without complaint. Nonie and Una showed no sign of displeasure at putting on their hoods. In their case, they seemed too occupied by their desire to see this mystery man to be bothered.

The sound of galloping hooves drew Wordsworth's attention away from the women. He turned his eyes up to see a figure on horseback crossing the pasture. The passing rider looped around the vampire caravan, which quickly evoked a string of squeals and shrieked salutations from several female voices in the group. The man soon came around again so that Nonie and Una could see him, and both called out to him and waved. "D! D!"

For some reason, the man with the briefest name Wordsworth had ever known came up to them. The procession continued toward the homestead, so the man kept his horse walking along with them. He also wore a hood, but he pushed it off his head to reveal a pale, handsome face and lush mahogany hair that fell off his shoulders. Wordsworth couldn't help giving the women a paternal smile. The man's visage certainly explained their excitement.

"Told ya he 'adn't changed," Una muttered loud enough that Wordsworth could hear. She then raised her voice to D. "Hope they be treatin' ya well, lad."

"Good to see you, too, Miss Una. And Miss Nonie." The young man—he certainly looked young, no older than his mid-twenties—smiled and nodded to them both. His deep blue eyes then moved up to the cart, and the smile faded.

Wordsworth cleared his throat and provided his own smile in substitution. "Good morning. A pleasure to meet you. I'm William Walter Wordsworth, and my friend here—"

Someone shouted D's name. All heads turned uphill to another man standing by the cattle corral. He was young, too, but it was impossible to tell at that distance if he was nearly as handsome. Was he his brother? The questions kept mounting, but the summons made it impossible for D to stay and explain. He gave a respectful nod to the group, turned his mount away and headed back up the hill.

"May I ask who that is?" said Wordsworth.

Nonie and Una still smiled and glowed despite the young man's premature departure. "D," they said simultaneously.

"Yes, I gathered that. But who is he?"

"The hired 'and," said Una. "Been with the Sherdale family fae aboot ten years."

The priest spied the retreating form of D and his horse. A hired hand? For the last ten years? He seemed too refined to be stuck in the occupation. Did he not have family? Any connections outside the frontier? As much as Wordsworth wanted to linger on these questions, a more pressing matter needed to be considered as the clan drew closer to the homestead. From what he had gathered, only humans kept farms in the area. There may be a chance, then—a slim one, but not slim enough to warrant dismissal just yet—that the Sherdales would be willing to help him and Tres.

"Miss Nonie," he said in as calm and guileless a voice as he could fabricate, "I would like to see more of this interesting young man. Do you think you could make sure we see him when we reach the house?"

The two women look at each other. Their brows furrowed and their eyes silently asked a dozen questions. Nonie did finally say, "Well . . . it would mean we'd talk t' D some more. But 'is lairdship . . ."

"Only his lairdship and councilmen can approach the haus an' talk t' Auld Sherdale," Una explicated. "Sometimes the lads come an' look at the goods, but the old man does all the decidin'. Still . . . aw, what the hell! Come on, Nonie!"

Nonie smiled openly, her fangs shining like pearls in the dim morning light. She took charge of the pony drawing the cart while Una got behind and gave the vehicle a shove. The efforts of both made the cart break away from the line of the caravan and speed up alongside everyone up the hill. The velocity and rough terrain made everything inside jolt and shudder, but Wordsworth gripped Tres' arm and grinned. "I know you're going to object to this, Gunslinger, but I think I found our way out. Just follow my lead." He might have been wrong about which way to go to get help, but now the Professor had a plan to go on. Never mind that it involved selling themselves into servitude. It was just one step in a long quest of getting back to Caterina before it was too late. And for her, and for the greater good, Wordsworth was willing to bear a lot. All without his pipe, too.


	9. Chapter 8

Another chapter already? Well, it might be the last for a while since I want to focus on getting my other major fic finished before the year is out. Chances are, though, that this will keep bugging me now and then for an update. Thanks for the reviews!

Blood Wars: New Dawn

Chapter 8

* * *

Cloaked figures wearing gas masks descended with parachutes and scoured the harsh terrain throughout the night. Dawn didn't seem to bring much promise until one Auto Jäger came across something. The thug half-stepped on a long object that was already showing the cracks of impact. The creature picked up the object and held it to its eye. Well, it held up the object to the camera implants that relayed an image through a wireless connection into a computer thousands of feet above the ground. Dietrich von Lohengrin sat at that computer, electronic visor hiding his tea-brown eyes. The image of the object came into his view.

His full lips turned up in a half-smile. One hand, gloved and hooked up to wires that ran from each finger into the computer's modem, pushed up the visor. It then pressed the button to the communicator in his ear. The boy continued smiling. "Kämpfer? Yes, they finally found something. Know anyone who smokes a pipe?"

"The Inquisition would pay to have individuals like these women in their group," Wordsworth muttered to Tres as the cart reached the hill's apex in hardly any time.

"Unlikely," said Tres. "They are vampires, and therefore would never be admitted entry into the Inquisition Bureau."

Wordsworth gave a tired chuckle. "Maybe they need to reconsider their membership policy." He cut off the exchange and poked his head out the cart. Una and Nonie, hair a bit mussed from bolting up the hill the way they did, panted and glowed from exercise and anticipation. His eye traveled further to a pair of figures standing by the horse corral. One of them was D. He'd just released his horse into the enclosure and was returning to speak to the other young man. He loomed over his companion and struck a fine profile against the brightening skyline. Wordsworth kept hoping against hope that they would be able to approach the men without interference—until he saw another group coming up the hill.

He understood now why William MacLeod, who led the procession, had long hair while all the other men kept theirs shorn. He was the leader, and his long locks were a symbol of his superior status. If Wordsworth hadn't figured it out, of course, his place as chief would have still been obvious by the cut of his figure—tall, barrel-chested, dignified even in animal skins—as he led his men. Wordsworth felt only a smidgen of relief because the Duke didn't appear to have noticed them yet. He began to stand in the cart, but both his knees suddenly throbbed and ached from being stretched. He almost sank back down, but a pair of hands helped him up.

"We better be quick," said Nonie. She drew Wordsworth out of the cart while Una assisted Tres. Wordsworth forced himself to stand on his own feet and hide the pain so that Nonie could go on ahead and obtain D's attention before the Duke did. He also wanted to avoid showing weakness. If he intended to be hired as a servant, or a slave, he needed to look like he could do real work.

Already the holes in his plan were starting to show. Wordsworth saw the flaws gaping at him: the disadvantage of his age; the fact they already had a healthy, strong farm hand at their disposal; the risk of Tres being bought but not him; the possibility that Tres might rebel against this out of unfailing loyalty to Caterina. But he pressed on. He tried to move quickly. His aging legs objected. Thankfully, Tres chose to stay close to Wordsworth this time and kept an eye on him in case the older priest became stricken with cramps or faintness. Then again, Tres couldn't move much faster than Wordsworth since he was still wrapped in chains. Both men alternated between hopping and shuffling, both of which tired out Wordsworth sooner than he liked. "We better just wait," he eventually suggested to Tres. The cyborg conceded.

Nonie, good to her word, approached D directly, chatted with him for a minute, then took his hand and guided him over to the priests. The handsome youth's smooth forehead now crinkled a little. Wordsworth understood the expression. Nevertheless, the boy remained polite. "You must be newcomers here," he spoke in a low, gentle voice.

"Indeed," said Wordsworth with a grin. "Not entirely accustomed to all that goes on here. So, you are the hired hand."

D just nodded. "'e be especially good with animals," Nonie said on his behalf. "An' they take to 'im very well."

"Works far too 'ard, too," shouted Una as she came jogging up from behind. She sent Nonie a slash-across-the-neck signal and pointed behind them. Nonie winced and looked back. Wordsworth's view of the Duke and his counselors was now blocked, but he had an idea what was going on.

"Well, I think you might like to know that, while I'm getting a little ways in years – though not too much – I have a wealth of skills with machines and figures. And my friend, Tres Iquus, knows how to complete any task with optimal efficiency and speed."

The young hired hand cleared his throat. "That is good to know, but I'm afraid won't be much help."

A scowl and pout formed on Una's face. It informed Wordsworth that she realized what he'd been up to all along. If Nonie knew, she didn't show it. She was all sympathy while giving the Professor a light pat on the shoulder. "Auld Sherdale 'asn't taken on new workers in years, love. They'll be others, dun worry."

Heart sinking once more, Wordsworth sighed and bowed to Nonie. "Thank you." He wished he could have said more to convey his gratitude, but another presence entered the fray. An old man, leaning heavily on a cane, came up behind D. He had a gray-and-white mustache and beard.

"What's going on?" the man asked in a rough voice filled with what sounded like pebbles. "MacLeod's telling me these two shouldn't be up here."

"You must be Mr. Sherdale," interjected Wordsworth. "A pleasure. I'm William Walter Wordsworth, and—"

"I don't care who you are," retorted Old Sherdale. "I'm not buyin' labor right now."

That seemed to seal it for them. Wordsworth looked at Tres despairingly. He expected the Duke to come up and drag him back to the cart any second. A hand did grab him, but it wasn't one of the Pictavians. It was D. His eyes looked at him with sudden urgency.

"Wordsworth? Your name is Wordsworth?"

Wordsworth shuddered from the abrupt inquiry and the strength of D's grip. He imagined the boy being strong, but not _this_ strong. "Y-yes. Why?"

The old man looked up at D and tried to straighten up in spite of his slumping back. "What is it?"

All at once the young man, who radiated confidence and calm shortly before, looked confounded. His eyes darted around. He was trying not to look at anyone directly, but when that failed he focused on Wordsworth. The Professor felt himself being examined by someone who thought he should recognize him, but didn't. For Wordsworth's part, D's face was totally new to him. Well, there _was_ something vaguely familiar in his features, but not enough to make him think he'd seen D before.

Eventually the young man's grip relaxed. "Sorry, I . . . I'm not sure. It sounded sort of familiar."

During the uncomfortable silence, the other young man joined the group. His rough features and stockier build matched Old Sherdale more than D. Wordsworth guessed the individual was Sherdale's son. "What's the matter?" he asked after D muttered his confused statement.

"D thinks he's heard this man's name before," grumbled the old man. "Look, I've got things to do. MacLeod, take these men back down. We don't need them."

The other young man looked startled. "Father! If D thinks he might know him, we can't just have him leave!"

"We can't afford him!" Old Sherdale's voice thundered unexpectedly. "Now stop mucking around, you two, and get back to work."

"Wait." The youth came close to D and touched his shoulder. "D, I'll help you buy him if you want."

D's eyes widened for second, then half-closed. "I can't ask you to."

"That's very generous of you," Wordsworth cut in again, "but I'm afraid you have to take both of us. Tres and me, that is. I know it's a lot to ask—"

The Duke came down on them like a hawk, which made Wordsworth close his mouth and stumble back a few steps. He nearly fell trying to maintain his balance. "I be the one who sets conditions an' prices, not ye."

"And I am not giving you permission to buy them!" Old Sherdale came back and looked ready to start swinging his cane at the boys. "Get out of here!"

"I'll pay it off," said D in a deep tone, like a warning breeze before a thunderstorm. "I'll earn back what I pay."

"That doesn't do me much good _now_, does it?" Sherdale dug the foot of his cane into the ground. "I'm in debt enough as it is. We need hard cash right now, and you're about to waste it!"

"But the harvest is coming up!" his son pointed out. "Look, D, I'll help you pay. Don't worry about owing anything, all right? From one friend to another."

Sherdale stamped his cane and growled. "You two are going to be the ruin of me."

Guilt started etching itself on D's fair face, but his comrade didn't relent. He turned to the Duke. "How much do you want them for?"

D and Sherdale's son haggled down the price as far as they could, but it still sounded hefty to Wordsworth's ears when the price was settled. Yet he imagined that William MacLeod could have sold his new goods for more elsewhere. He regarded D with a kinder eye than with the Sherdales. Wordsworth considered the possible reasons. Maybe they knew him better as someone closer to being their equal. Nonie and Una exhibited no hesitation in breaking from the line and approaching D—the only obstacle was the Duke's disapproval.

Wordsworth then recalled something Una had said: He hadn't changed a bit. As in D hadn't aged since they last saw each other? Three years didn't seem a long enough span of time to expect someone to age significantly. That indicated that this was something Una and Nonie monitored. Had he not appeared to age these last ten years?

Wordsworth discreetly examined D's mouth. When the young man's soft lips parted, the priest noted no sign of fangs. But some Methuselah wore caps or developed other techniques of hiding them. Then again, many Methuselah had copper-colored eyes. Doubtful that D would bother with contact lens that changed his eye color – unless he was trying to conceal his Methuselah identity.

Further musing on the issue had to be postponed. The two sides had come to a compromise. Both money and some horses were given in exchange for Wordsworth and Tres. Even though Mr. Sherdale took no part in the arrangement, he was owed a handshake from the Duke after his son and D.

"It be yer lucky day, after all," said Nonie. She patted Wordsworth on the shoulder again before coming around to peck Tres on the cheek. "Be seein' ye!"

"Though nae fae a while," Una reminded her. "Lots o' country t' cover." She aimed a squinting eye at the priests. "Ye lads behave yeselves."

"Of course," said Wordsworth with a bow. He couldn't say he was sorry for being free of his vampire captors, but he and Tres owed a great deal to these women. "Thank you again. God willing we will meet again so we may repay you for your kindness."

Una laughed. "Yeah, yeah, we'll see."

A pair of young men took Una and Nonie by the arm and escorted them back down to the caravan. Another youth took charge of the pony with the cart and likewise brought it back. The Duke's counselors descended the hill in kind, but the chief delayed for a moment. He approached the still bound priests. "Ye be a clever an' lucky pair, I give ye that. Don't think I don't see what ye be reckonin'. But now that Sherdale owns ye, don't expect to be gettin' out of this country in the near future. An' don't expect us t' treat ye so generously should we meet again."

"Your hospitality has not gone unacknowledged," said Wordsworth, trying not to sound cross. His body ached and was on the verge of buckling from fatigue. He wanted nothing but to get out of these blasted ropes and lie down for a bit. Maybe even sleep, if he could. "I wish you God's blessing in your travels."

The Duke grunted and turned to go. A thought struck Wordsworth. Despite risking the vampire's annoyance, he called to him. "I don't suppose you could return our possessions to us? Or at least my cane?"

The chief paused midstep. However, he didn't turn back to Wordsworth or utter a word. A second later he continued downhill. Wordsworth sighed and shrugged. At least he tried.

Soon the priests could no longer hear the clinging of objects and the groans and creaks of wagon wheels. The caravan moved away from them toward the black forest in the distance. Orange light continued to spread across the eastern horizon, and the sun had surpassed the hills. For all the trouble they'd given him and his comrade, Wordsworth hoped the vampires made it to the woods in time.

"All right," Mr. Sherdale said, intruding on Wordsworth's final thoughts regarding the vampires. "What have we got here? You, Wordsworth. What did you say you could do?"

Chasing away the Pictavians from his mind, Wordsworth gladly repeated his and Tres' skills. He still fought the urge to lean on his companion or sit on the ground. He did rather well until D and the younger Sherdale untied them. Wordsworth wanted to groan in relief from being freed, but now his body demanded him more than ever to find a source of physical support.

After listening to them half-heartedly, as it appeared, Sherdale waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. I suppose we could use you. D, bring them in. Help them wash and dress. We've got spare clothes in the attic. If nothing fits, just adjust them as best you can."

D nodded and led the way inside. "You can borrow anything of mine you need."

Another swell of relief washed over Wordsworth on receiving such consideration, and on returning to some hint of modern living. Just a simple farmhouse, but it was still a building with a roof. The front door brought them into a small living room with chairs—all wooden and carved—a couch, and a wood-burning stove. A few watercolor paintings hung on the walls, which helped to distract from the ugly brown wallpaper that started to peel along the ceiling and floor. A kitchen stood attached on the left via a wide archway. D continued through a hallway lined with doors to bedrooms and a study. The last room at the back of the house seemed to serve as a dining room, only there wasn't just a table for people to eat at. The room provided the best view with its expansive windows that looked onto a porch and a chain of hills and vales in the west. The sky was still dark on that side, yet Wordsworth could imagine the lovely sunsets. He saw more watercolors on the walls in here, too. One of them portrayed this very room with the red and golden beams of a sunset streaming in and tinting the furniture.

"Here's the washroom," said D. He walked toward a large alcove with a dressing screen in front of it. He pushed it aside. To Wordsworth's mild horror, it revealed a sink, a tiny shower, and a raised round tub with tall sides. One man could just barely fit into either water apparatus.

"_That's_ the washroom?" Wordsworth couldn't believe that they didn't have a separate room for such a private routine. "Where is the toilet?"

"We have an outhouse," said D. "There's no sewage system this far north. We did have a septic tank a while ago, but it was old and faulty and Mr. Sherdale has been trying to save every penny he can. An outhouse is a simpler and less expensive option. I'll point it out to you after you've washed up. Or do you need to use it now?"

"No, no!" Wordsworth laughed nervously and waved his hands. "I'm fine, thank you. So . . . where do we change our clothes?"

D pointed to the alcove. "In there, if you wish. Or out here." He gestured to the room. "The Sherdales are busy, and we have no neighbors for miles to spy on you. I'll be upstairs getting clothes."

Wordsworth mulled over this. "Yes. Well, that's a help. I suppose I'm not used to such . . . casualness."

A smile formed on D's lips. "It's all right. The shower is on a timer, just so you know. You have ten minutes to clean off. That tub is not so much for cleaning as it is for relaxing. We have a heater under it to make the water hot, and there are jets in the tub itself. Feel free to use it."

Wordsworth couldn't quite imagine why a farm family couldn't afford a septic tank, but could keep a hot tub around. Still, he wasn't about to complain. D left and took his time with retrieving garments, and Wordsworth was glad for it. The priest stripped down as quickly as possible and hopped into the shower. Tres placed Wordsworth's clothes in a folded pile on the table before removing his poncho and undershirt. "Professor," he called, level-headed as ever, "I do not think I should use these facilities. I have some exposed hardware."

That did come as distressing news to Wordsworth, moreso because he wouldn't be able to remedy it before they got back to Rome. "Don't worry. Maybe they have oil you can use."

When D returned with clothes and towels, Tres explained the situation. He even showed D where his synthetic skin had burned away and left his metal skeleton and some wires unprotected. There were a few bare patches on his chest and arms.

The young man's forehead pinched. "They must have given you some bad shocks," he muttered as he examined them. "They're rougher on the cyborgs because cyborgs can endure more." He looked up at Tres with a compassionate gaze. "Sorry."

"Negative. It is nothing, so long as the burned areas are properly covered."

D nodded, then left and came back with bandages and duct tape. Wordsworth managed a glance at D's attendance to Tres when he stepped out of the shower and started filling the tub. The youth worked with quick and meticulous precision. Tres' chest and arms were soon wrapped up, and D left and returned with a mixture of castor oil and olive oil, as well as a sponge. "It's all right," he said when Tres tried to take the items from him. "You relax. I'll do it for you."

Wordsworth silently chuckled at the idea of Tres trying to relax. To his surprise, though, Tres accepted D's offer. The young man silently scrubbed away at Tres' skin, careful to avoid wetting the bandages. At the same time Wordsworth stepped into the filled tub and sank down. The heat shot through him and make his nerves tingle. Then his muscles began to unwind.

"Thank the Lord!" he exclaimed before sighing. "I can't remember the last time I've been in a hot tub. Wonderfully therapeutic." He relaxed in silence for a few minutes, relishing this little luxury. But before long the extensive list of questions returned to the forefront of the Professor's mind.

"So, D," he began casually, "you said my surname sounded familiar to you, yes?"

He heard a stifled chuckle from the other side of the screen. "I really couldn't say. Maybe I have, but I have no idea where."

Wordsworth hummed thoughtfully. "That is very bothersome, isn't it? Maybe it's the name of someone your family knows."

"Maybe," said D after some hesitation. His tone sounded more discouraged.

"Are you originally from Albion?"

More hesitation. "I'm afraid I don't know."

Wordsworth, in spite of how nice the heat and jets felt, sat up and focused his attention on D's increasingly morose voice. "Why is that?"

The scrubbing sound the sponge made against Tres' skin slowed down in pace. "The truth is I can't remember anything about myself or my life before ten or eleven years ago."

"Oh. I see. I'm sorry to hear that." Wordsworth really did feel sorry for the young man. With a kind temperament like his, surely he had family or friends who missed him. "Well, do you know what 'D' stands for?"

"Nope," said D. He let himself chuckle. "I don't know if it stands for my first name or last name. It may not stand for anything at all. But when I saw the letter, it stood out to me. It seemed important." The scrubbing picked up speed again.

"Just like 'Wordsworth'."

"I guess."

Both men allowed a moment of silent respite. Wordsworth leaned back to rest. The air jets lightly massaged him. He breathed in the steam and let it warm him up from within. His body not only relaxed but thawed out. How bitingly cold it had been, both yesterday and today, especially in the dead of night. He could have fallen asleep in the tub. Tired as he was, Wordsworth reminded himself that this was not a holiday. The Sherdales would soon put him to work. Before that, though, he wanted to know more about D's situation. It might give him a sense of what was in store for them.

"How did you come to be employed by the Sherdales?"

"They found me in the Howling Wood," said D. "Knocked unconscious and left for dead, it seemed. They never figured out how I got there. I agreed to stay on as their farm hand to repay them for rescuing me."

The heat started to make Wordsworth drowsy. He took the hint and pulled himself out of the tub. "But that was ten years ago, yes?"

"Things haven't been easy for them. I know Labon – Mr. Sherdale, I mean – can be hard to get along with, but he wasn't always like that. As much as I want to find out more about who I am, I can't just leave them. Not yet, anyway. Once things get better . . ."

Wordsworth could hear the rising tension at the end of that incomplete thought. He could imagine how D felt. Yet the man had to look after his own needs, too. He wanted to say that, but as he was about to speak, D continued. "What about you? You said you weren't from around here. Where did you come from?"

Ah, so he was throwing the questions back at him. Wordsworth let the other matter go for now. "Well, I hail from Albion," he explained while drying himself off with the towel D left hanging over the screen. "But I'm actually a priest from Rome. Both Tres and I are, in fact."

"Priests?" D asked, his interest sounding piqued. "But how did you end up this far north?"

"By accident, as often seems the case. We were in an airship and had to abandon it."

Wordsworth did agree with Tres that the details of their plight should remain a secret to strangers at this time. But, then, maybe D, who did not sound disturbed or angered, would be willing to help them escape. Well, considering his situation with the Sherdales . . . no, it wouldn't be fair to place him in such a compromising position. After all that effort to buy them from MacLeod's clan, only to let them flee—D would undoubtedly face severe retribution.

"You mean the ship was going down?" D asked.

"Not exactly." Wordsworth pulled on some long johns that smelled like moth balls, then a pair of loose-fitting trousers with suspenders. He tore open the hem so that the cuffs would be long enough. The shirt, though made of a coarse fabric, fit him quite well. To be clean and wear clean clothes invigorated his spirits. "The ship was under attack by terrorists."

Wordsworth, now decent, pushed aside the screen. Tres was still naked from the waist up and being scrubbed down by D. His torso and arms were clean, which left just his face and neck. "Is that what's going on in the rest of the world?" asked D. He then squinted into Tres' ear. "Looks like you have something jammed in there," he mumbled before getting up to fetch some cotton swabs and a pair of tweezers. He came back in hardly any time and looked at Wordsworth for an answer.

"It is indeed a fraught and dangerous world," Wordsworth said gravely. "Have you heard of the political tension between the Vatican and the New Human Empire?"

"Some snippets here and there." D pressed one of the cotton swabs into Tres' ear first. He managed to remove some black grime, but the main object of concern was still wedged in place. Tres displayed no sign of discomfort. "There's no full-out war yet, but it can't be long in coming."

"My hope is that it won't come at all." Here again Wordsworth wondered if it would be safe to disclose more information about their profession. Tres did look at him, probably to warn him against it, but the cyborg's eyes weren't easy to read. "Actually, the two of us work for the Vatican. For the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

Wordsworth watched D whip his head toward him. His eyes filled with surprise and apprehension. His eyebrows pulled together. "The Vatican? You're . . . agents of the Vatican?"

"Father Wordsworth," said Tres, "it is advised that you do not disclose any more information until further data on D and his constituents has been gathered."

D widened his eyes, alarmed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's just Tres' way of saying he doesn't trust you yet," Wordsworth interjected. He felt his forehead bedewing with sweat. "But I trust you, D. We're here by accident, and we want nothing more than to get out of here. It would be selfish to ask you to help us—you've done enough—but—"

"We will take whatever measures we must to complete our mission," Tres finished in a deadpan tone that put both D and Wordsworth on edge.

"Within reason," Wordsworth amended. It hardly helped. D looked at both of them with flashing eyes that couldn't settle on one emotion. After looking back and forth between them, D hung his head.

"Great. Just great. The one time I let myself cross Labon, and it's over two slaves who turn out to be Vatican agents." He raised his head. His scowl had deepened. "He's not going to believe this, you know."

"I know," said Wordsworth gently. He nabbed a chair from the table and sat next to D. "We're both in a sticky situation. If it makes you feel any better, we won't let the family come to harm."

D sighed and resumed digging out the object trapped in Tres' ear, this time with the tweezers. "I can only take your word for it, right? But if you try to escape, they'll come after—"

The object – a chunk of tree bark – flew out of Tres' ear. D tumbled back and nearly landed in Wordsworth's lap. The force of the withdrawal dazed D, but Wordsworth's ears perked up when he heard some static and a familiar voice. _"Please help me, Alucard. You're my only hope."_

Both he and D looked at Tres. A light beamed out of the cyborg's left eye and cast a holographic projection onto the floor. The projected figure stood only a foot high, but she was otherwise a perfect replica of Caterina Sforza, if a bit more transparent. After speaking, the figure looked behind her, then looked forward again and nodded. Another moment of static fuzzed her out, but she came back and repeated, _"Please help me, Alucard. You're my only hope."_

D propped himself up to see the hologram. "What's this?"

Quite uncharacteristically, Tres did not respond immediately. Wordsworth nearly repeated the question, both for D's sake and his. The cyborg still hesitated. "Question unclear. Request input."

"Question unclear!" cried Wordsworth. "I think it's pretty clear! What's this message from Caterina?"

Again, Tres didn't answer. He hardly acknowledged either man's presence now. His reddish eyes locked on the holographic cardinal as she repeated her short plea over and over. D sat up fully and closely watched. "Who is she?"

"Our superior." Wordsworth stood and walked around to Tres. "She was on the airship, too. Unfortunately she was captured. She insisted we escape without her, according to Tres. Tres, I assume she recorded this message shortly before you came to get me."

Tres let another bout of silence make its merry way through the room (repeating hologram excepting) before deigning to answer. "The Duchess of Milan recorded a message to be delivered to the individual called Alucard. That is all the information I can divulge at this time. Mission details remain confidential."

"So this _is_ some kind of mission." D's gaze honed in on the priests. Wordsworth felt it and grew uneasy under its scrutiny.

"Not that I am aware of. Our only objective is to return to Rome as quickly as possible to get help. If there is another mission, Tres won't tell me what it is."

"Positive," said Tres before D could say anything. "Mission details will be disclosed after I have located Alucard."

Wordsworth rubbed his tired eyes. "I don't suppose _that_ name rings any bells, does it, D?"

The young man's cool eyes relinquished their inquiring stare and turned away from both Wordsworth and Tres. They shifted back and forth as he thought. "I don't think so, but . . . maybe she means another name. I do know someone around here named Aldruca." He let himself look at Wordsworth, though his face winced doubtfully. "Could there be a connection?"

Tres didn't move his eyes, but he asked very suddenly, "Where does Aldruca reside?"

"In the Howling Wood. He's an eccentric hermit who's been there for years. Some say he's crazy, or that he's a cannibal. No one goes looking for him. Not even Methuselah." D turned his attention back to the hologram. "Why would she want to give a message to someone like him?"

"Confidential," Tres declared on cue.

"I can't imagine." Wordsworth returned to the chair next to D and sat down. Both his body and the seat creaked. He sighed loudly and added a groan. "How she knows anyone around here is beyond my knowledge."

"Tres," D said after taking a minute to think, "can you show us more of this recording?"

The cyborg's gaze never wavered. He did, however, take a moment to point to a small, round device on the back of his neck. Wordsworth hadn't noticed it before. This was a new piece of hardware. "The vampires installed a restraining bolt. It is possible that it is short-circuiting the playback function."

D raised an eyebrow. "How do I know you're not going to run off once I disable the bolt?"

"Where could he run to?" Wordsworth pointed out. "Besides, I have one, too." He pulled up the leg of his trousers to so the metal band around his ankle. The red light on it showed that it hadn't shorted out even after being submerged in hot water. The Pictavians were formidably resourceful.

"I would hope," Wordsworth continued with a smile, "that Tres wouldn't take off without me."

Tres offered no response. His silence left D to consider the two priests and his options. He watched the repetitious message from the lovely cardinal again. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. His decision forced him to leave the room again. More minutes passed this time before he came back with a screwdriver. D sat behind Tres and opened up the bolt. He utilized the tweezers again to carefully disconnect the wires inside it. "There you go," he said.

Just as he did, the light and the hologram disappeared. Wordsworth gulped but shied away from speaking. D peeked from behind Tres. "What are you doing? You said you could play the rest of it!"

"Statement unclear," said Tres. "Request input."

Wordsworth clapped a hand over his eyes. "Tres, just play the rest of the message, please!"

"What message?" The cyborg's voice was as unaffected as ever.

"_What message!_" D and Wordsworth both exclaimed.

A young voice from outside interrupted the unfolding fiasco. "D! D!"

"Coming!" D sighed and handed the tweezers and screwdriver to Wordsworth.

"I-I'm very sorry about this!" Wordsworth could guess what Tres was up to, but to let D in on it would not help. "He's probably experiencing a system flutter. From all we've just enduring in the last 24 hours, I wouldn't be surprised if some things have been knocked loose or jumbled up."

"Just do what you can until I come back," D ordered brusquely. He threw on his cloak and stormed out the room, heading to the front door.

For what felt like the fifteen time that day, Wordsworth's heart sank. He turned and snapped at the Tres. "Great work! Now he'll never trust us. You couldn't have just played it. He was our only chance of getting back to Rome!"

"We will manage on our own." Tres regarded Wordsworth with a cold, determined look.

Wordsworth shook his head. "You sound so sure. Well, even if you're right, I'm still angry with you."

The cyborg's right eyebrow twitched. "I do not understand."

"Exactly!" Wordsworth stood up. "If you or the Sherdales need me, I'll be looking for the outhouse." He too exited the room in a huff, leaving Tres still shirtless and wearing an expression of mild puzzlement.


End file.
